


Mycroft's Hair-Brained Nightmare

by Crunch13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humour / Crack, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft in Love, Mycroft-centric, No Smut, Some Swearing, Will Mycroft get his man?, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-08 23:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 25,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12874977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crunch13/pseuds/Crunch13
Summary: Mycroft is obsessed by a certain Detective Inspector, but he lacks the confidence to do anything about it because he feels physically unattractive.  He's desperate to find a treatment for his thinning hair and takes a gamble on an untested experiment.  What could possibly go wrong?!  Well, just about everything it seems!Will Mycroft finally get his man?  Well, it IS Christmas after all!Twenty-five chapters – to be posted one a day until Christmas.WARNING - POSSIBLE TRIGGER:Chapter 16 contains references to someone being chased by dogs.  Nothing really bad happens, however you may wish to skip the chapter - you can do so without any major negative impact on the story line.





	1. How It All Began

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgement: Written as a thank you to the authors of the many wonderful fanfics I have read on A03 (and elsewhere) over the years, and for their having the courage to publish and subject their work to public scrutiny!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but this plot and story. All rights in the characters and works referred to in this fanfiction reside with their owners. No copyright infringement intended. 
> 
> References to: ‘A Study in Pink’ (BBC Sherlock)’, ‘The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes’; ‘The Seven Per Cent Solution’ (my favourite SH film); ‘Treehouse of Horror IX’ (The Simpsons); ‘comparethemeerkat.com’ (BISL Limited).

Mycroft gazed forlornly at his reflection in the dresser mirror. He had combed and re-combed his hair, switching from a left parting to a right parting then back again, but his traitorous, thinning hair refused to co-operate, to look more than the sum of its parts.  Oh, he wasn’t a vain man but what wouldn’t he give for a luxurious head of hair like Sherlock’s?  It was an injustice – he was the big brother, he was the smarter one, he was the British Government for god’s sake!  The good hair genes should rightfully have belonged to him, not his wastrel younger brother!!  He had tried a multitude of hair growth potions and lotions over the years with no success.  He had considered wearing a hairpiece but Sherlock would have tormented him interminably, and the anticipation of that torment surpassed even his discomfort at losing his hair.  He had considered a hair transplant but viewing a video of the procedure had quickly dissuaded him and, again, Sherlock would have tormented him interminably.  He had even considered shaving his head but some hair was better than no hair!  So, he suffered in silence as he always did.  Mycroft Holmes was not a whinger!

But now a new factor had been introduced into the equation and he was desperate to find a solution – Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.  How could he expect Gregory with his perfect looks, his perfect smile and his perfect hair, to even spare him a glance?  He didn’t stand a chance the way he looked now – his dieting and exercise were all for naught.  He didn’t need Sherlock to remind him, time and time again, that he was overweight, or more accurately ‘fat’ – he could see it for himself every time he looked in a mirror.  But maybe, just maybe, there was the sliver of hope if he could do something about his hair, together with more dieting and more exercise.

He donned his jacket, and with a sigh inspected his appearance in the full-length mirror as he heard his car pull up outside the front door to transport him to the office.  Ready for battle, clad in his three-piece suit of armour, and armed with his trusty umbrella, he opened the door and stepped outside, muttering to himself as he did so, “ _Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more_ ”.  In an instant, he suppressed the negative emotion that filled him, and assumed the professional persona that he wore so well.   The chauffeur opened the rear door of the Jaguar and held it for him, “Thank you, James.  Lovely day, isn’t it?”  He slid gracefully into his seat and turned to his PA who occupied her usual seat behind the driver, “And good morning, Anthea.  How are you today?” the customary exchange of pleasantries taking his mind temporarily off his hair.  For most of the journey, both sat tapping away on their phones, catching up with their messages and the latest news.  Then, the silence between them was broken by a small intake of breath from Anthea and a quiet. “Ohh”.

“Something interesting?” asked Mycroft.

“Depends on what you consider interesting,” she replied.  “Just received a news update from Reuters – the headline says ‘The Hoff is dead!’.”

“Oh, does it say how?”

“No, nothing other than the headline,” she shook her head.  “That is so sad!  I used to love that show, still do – I’ve been watching all the re-runs.  All those suntanned, hard bodied, fit young men, running around in their red shorts…”

“Yes, indeed, I …” Mycroft caught himself, “I mean I watched it too - occasionally.”  He stared down at his own phone fighting back the blush that coloured his face and ears.

Anthea smiled knowingly, “Your secret is safe with me.  Oh, more news coming in – says there are no suspicious circumstances … lots of tributes pouring in … would you believe that Her Majesty was a closet fan! … apparently that WAS his OWN hair AND his REAL hair colour … and at his age too?  I always thought it was a toupee … blah blah blah … OMG, he’s hardly been gone 10 minutes and already someone is auctioning off quote ‘a handful of hair from the sex god’ on eBay!”

“Disgusting! Does it say how they managed to obtain it?”

“Just that it was during a backstage party following one of his concerts in Germany.”  Anthea glanced up at Mycroft who stared back in disbelief, “Oh yes, he has a big following over there as a singer and stage performer.”

Mycroft put his phone away, closed his eyes and relaxed back in his seat, the beginnings of a plan formulating in his great mind.


	2. Uncle Rudi

On his arrival at the office Mycroft went straight to the security cabinet, and pulled out a rather thin file.  He studied the worn cover intently, unconsciously caressing it as he did so.  The file title was ‘Stem Cell Research – Regenerative Medicine and Overcoming the Auto-immune Response’.

“Anthea, get me Uncle Rudi on the phone, please.”

“Yes, sir.  Don’t forget you have a meeting with the Prime Minister in forty minutes.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten – this won’t take long.”

A few seconds later the phone on his desk began to ring, Mycroft took a deep breath to steady his nerves before picking up the handset – he must not appear overeager or he would give the game away.  Uncle Rudi’s mind was as sharp as, well, Sherlock’s.

“I have Dr Rudi Freud on the line for you, sir.”

“Thank you, put him through, please.”  There was a clicking sound from the phone as the call was transferred.  “Good morning, Uncle Rudi.  How is Vienna?”

“Ah, good morning to you too, my darling boy!  It is a pleasure to hear your voice.  Vienna is as beautiful as always!  How are things with you?  Are you well?”

“Yes, I am, thank you.”  Mycroft bathed in his uncle’s obvious delight at speaking with him – of all his relatives, Uncle Rudi was the only one who was consistent, open and unconditional in his affection for Mycroft.  “Uncle Rudi, I require your opinion on the work of Professor Homer Jay Simpson of Springfield University in Oregon, are you cognisant of it?”

“Of course, my dear.  His work in theoretical medical biology and immunology is at the cutting edge of experimentation – he has made many, many breakthroughs.  But, of course, you know this - your knowledge is eclectic.  Why do you ask?”

“Well, first, answer me this: If he is as good as his reputation would have us believe, why does he choose to work in Springfield, Oregon, of all places?”

“He simply prefers the more relaxed scientific and political oversight of his experimental work in that environment.  Often he is brilliant, sometimes not so much.  He likes, how do you say … to … to … to skate close to the edge ... Yes?”

“I see.”  Mycroft fiddled with the knot of his tie, “I have read his paper entitled, ‘Stem Cell Research – Regenerative Medicine and Overcoming the Auto-immune Response’, dealing with the regeneration and transplanting of internal organs.  I wondered whether the techniques described could be applied to other types of tissue.  What is your view?”

“My dear boy, your knowledge of this field, and almost every other I can think of, is almost as good as mine – why ask me?”

“Oh, Uncle Rudi, you do like to flatter,” Mycroft laughed but was inwardly very pleased.  “No, seriously, what do you think?”

“Perhaps you could be more specific, and tell me to which type of cells you refer?”

He hesitated before voicing what he knew would sound ridiculous when said aloud, then almost blurted out, “Hair follicles!” 

There were a few seconds of silence before Uncle Rudi responded, “You must pardon me, Mycroft, I am an old man and my hearing is not so good these days.  I thought you said ‘hair follicles’?”

“There is nothing amiss with your hearing, Uncle, I did say ‘hair follicles’.”

“This is this a government research project?”

“No, no …”

Uncle Rudi interrupted him, “Ah, I understand – it is classified, yes?”

“No, no, it is not a government project, classified or otherwise.  It is entirely a privately funded initiative – I am simply acting as an … intermediary … for an acquaintance who is seeking sponsorship for his own particular strand of research.”  He disliked lying to his uncle, but easily justified it to himself – it was not a lie, it was a half-truth, not the same thing at all.

“I see, I see.  Well then, what can I say?  Professor Simpson’s work is at a very early stage, yes indeed, but it looks very promising.  I think in a few years what you ask may be possible.”

“A few years?” Mycroft could not keep the disappointment he felt completely from his voice.

“Yes, yes, longer perhaps – time to develop the research and procedures, time to obtain official authorisation for clinical testing and trialling on animals first, then on human subjects, time to evaluate results, and then assuming all is well and licences are granted, time to scale up and go in to commercial production.”

Mycroft’s heart sank to his toes, “Of course, you are quite right.  Well, thank you as always for your help.”

“Think nothing of it.  But, I regret I must go now for I am playing tennis at the Maunberg later this morning with Baron Karl von Leinsdorf.  I cannot be late or he will claim victory by default.  The man is an odious bigot and it will do him good to receive a thrashing from one such as I.  The question is, what outfit to wear - should I be boringly conventional and wear shorts, or be myself and wear my new dress, mmmh?”  It sounded like a rhetorical question to Mycroft, so he remained silent.  Uncle Rudi answered it for himself, “I will ask my wife what she thinks.”

“She has always been very accepting of your choices.  You are a very fortunate man.”

“I am indeed, I am indeed.”

“And, she is a very fortunate lady to have you!”

Rudi laughed.  “We must speak again soon, my dear Mycroft, I miss having you around.”

“And I you!  But sadly, I too must go – I have a meeting with the Prime Minister, she wishes me to intervene in the BREXIT negotiations!”

“BREXIT?  Is that one of your charges now?”

“Seems like everything is these days, Number 10 just doesn’t seem to able to grasp the fact that I am a Civil Servant, NOT a bloody Politician!  Still Politicians are, regardless of political persuasion, consistent: they create the mess, then call upon us Civil Servants to clean it up, and then leave us carry the can when faced with public criticism!”  He paused to draw breath, “Apologies, Uncle Rudi, it’s going to be one of those days!”

“My poor, Mycroft, what burdens you bear for your country!  I hope they appreciate what you do for them.”

“Alas, no, I fear not!  Goodbye, Uncle.”  Down but not yet defeated, Mycroft replayed the conversation with Uncle Rudi in his head - ‘ _He simply prefers the more relaxed scientific and political oversight of his experimental work in that environment …..  He likes, how do you say … to … to skate close to the edge._ ’  The tiny ember of hope was rekindled, perhaps he had the leverage he needed!  Yes!!!  He might still succeed!


	3. A Kidnapping Is Arranged

Mycroft returned directly to the office following his meeting with the PM – he had the beginnings of a major headache, something that was becoming par for the course these days.  As soon as she saw him, Anthea enquired, “Did it go well?”

“Don’t be facetious!” he snapped at her, followed immediately with, “Sorry. My apologies.” 

Anthea reached into her bottom drawer for painkillers, then took a large bottle of chilled water from the fridge, and followed him through into his private office where he sat with his head in his hands.  “Here.”  She held out two paracetamols and filled a glass with water.

Mycroft smiled at her, and sighed, as he took the capsules and swallowed them.  “Thank you, you’re a lifesaver,” he said gratefully as he finished the water.  “Whatever would I do without you?”

Anthea began closing the blinds around the room to shut out the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.  “Oh, I’m sure you would manage to martyr on … somehow.”

He chuckled to himself before adding seriously, “Perhaps, but it just wouldn’t be the same, my dear.”

“Here, let me help you off with your jacket.”  She helped slip the jacket from his shoulders, then placed it on a hanger.  “Right, I’ll fetch you some tea, and maybe even some gingernuts – try to relax for a few minutes.”

“Thank you, I could murder a cuppa right now!”

“Give me ten minutes.  Meantime, drink another glass of water, it’ll help with the headache.”  Before closing the door on the way out, she turned back to him, “I’ll put all non-emergency calls on hold for a couple of hours, and slip your next meeting back until after lunch – say 13:30.  Keep it brief, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be here at 14:00 for their monthly briefing.”

“Oh, you are indeed an angel.” 

“Also, the Cabinet Secretary would like a few words this afternoon – he says thirty minutes max, I've pencilled him in for 16:30, is that okay?”

Many people considered the Cabinet Secretary, the highest ranked Whitehall Civil Servant, to be also the most powerful Civil Servant and possibly even the most powerful man in Britain, but that was only because, to be effective, Mycroft Holmes’ role required that he should stay out of the public eye.

“Yes, tell Jeremy that’s fine and I look forward to seeing him.”

“By the way, Detective Inspector Lestrade has asked for a meeting.”

Mycroft hesitated before replying, at any other time he would have leapt at the opportunity to see Gregory, but he wasn’t ready - not yet.  “Please advise him that I am presently unavailable.  However, if he needs my input on a case he may send over the file – I will look at it when I have the time.”

 

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Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft was sipping his tea from a china cup and surreptitiously dunking his gingernuts in it.  Usually, the biscuit ration was strictly limited to two, however, today Anthea had given him one extra.  He wasn’t entirely sure of the reason for this aberration but supposed that she was feeling sorry for him - whatever the reason, he was appreciative.  

Feeling slightly recovered, he googled ‘Professor Homer Jay Simpson’.  He was aware from UK Border Security reports that the Professor was due to arrive at Heathrow Airport from Portland, Oregon, this very day, to begin a speaking tour taking in several major European capitals.  He checked the date and location of Simpson’s scheduled appearance in London – tomorrow at the Royal College of Physicians, Regent’s Park.  He had to move quickly! Decision made, and without any hesitation, he pressed the intercom for Anthea, 

“Yes, sir?”

“Anthea, I need you to arrange a meeting …. The target is Professor Homer Jay Simpson due to fly in today from the USA – the usual arrangements apply.  I wish him to be delivered at 21:00 hours this evening.”

“Of course, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you, Anthea.”  He leaned back in his chair and with a deep sigh, tried to relax, hoping that the paracetamols he had taken would take effect – he wanted to be in top form for the meeting with Professor Simpson.


	4. The First Kidnapping

Professor Simpson stood on the steps outside his hotel.  He was awaiting the arrival of the transport which to take him to the formal dinner the Royal College was holding in his honour, prior to his scheduled speaking appearance there the next day.  He didn’t want to go, but couldn’t bring himself to turn down the offer of free food at one of London’s finest restaurants – his mouth salivated and his stomach grumbled at the thought.  Tired of waiting, and growing increasingly impatient, he checked his phone again for messages from a Mike Stamford, whom he had been told would pick him up at 19:30 sharp in a red BMW, and would escort him the to dinner.  He huffed to himself - there were still no messages.  He checked the time again - only 19:25 – five more minutes - his stomach grumbled incessantly.  “ _If Stamford’s not here in five more minutes, I’m going to McDonald’s!_ ”, he muttered, then checked his watch and phone again, “ _Four ... four more minutes!_ ”

A black Jaguar with tinted windows pulled up at the kerb and stopped opposite him.  He watched curiously as the driver got out and opened the kerb-side passenger door, but no-one emerged from the vehicle.  Instead, a female voice called out calmly and quietly to him from inside the vehicle, “Get into the car, Professor Simpson.”

He bent down to look inside the car.  “Are you taking me to the dinner?” he enquired hopefully.

“No.”  The beautiful woman seated inside smiled, then repeated her request - well actually, it was more of a command really. “Get into the car, Professor Simpson.”  Never once did she so much as glance in his direction, instead her attention remained steadfastly fixed on her phone as she continued texting throughout the exchange.

Simpson looked around nervously for help but there was no-one nearby, the doorman having gone inside the foyer with another guest.  He briefly thought of running away but was well aware of his athletic limitations, who was he kidding, he couldn’t outrun anyone.  He finally complied and entered the car.  As he sat down, the door closed behind him and the driver re-took his place behind the wheel.  He was being kidnapped!

“Seat belt,” said the beautiful woman, still without looking at him.

“Where are you taking me?” There was no response.  “Well, wherever it is, there had better be food – I’m starving!” he huffed.  Still no response.  “Will there be food?” he asked hopefully.

“No.”

“OOOhhhhh!” he whined.  After a while, when it became obvious that she did not intend speaking to him, he fished his phone out of his pocket – maybe Mike Stamford was looking for him … maybe he could rescue him in time to make the dinner, or at least call the police …  

“It won’t work – no signal.”

He jumped at the sound of her voice, and looked pointedly at the phone in her hand, “Yours is working.”

“Yes, it is.”  She smiled but still did not look at him.

Ignoring her advice, he checked his phone.  She was right, there was no signal, so how come hers was working?  Slowly, it dawned on him, they must have blocked his phone signal or ISP selectively.  “OOOOOOOhhhhhh!l” he whined again.


	5. The Meeting

The Jaguar slowed silently to a stop in the dimly lit, almost empty warehouse, and the chauffeur got out and opened the rear door on the Professor’s side.  Homer looked at him nervously but did not move.  He turned to the beautiful woman who quietly issued the one-word command, “Out!”

As soon as Homer exited the car, the chauffeur closed the door and resumed his place in the driving seat leaving the Homer standing alone, feeling lost and vulnerable, in the semi-darkness.  He looked around nervously, wondering what would happen next.  Suddenly the car headlights switched to full beam and, as his eyes adjusted, he noticed that there was another presence - a man standing directly ahead of him, leaning casually on an umbrella. He made his way slowly toward the man.

Mycroft observed Homer with some distaste as he approached.  He was indeed an odd looking individual, odder than even the photographs had suggested: more than a little overweight – no doubt due to an unhealthy liking for junk food and beer, and a chronic overindulgence of both; walked with a curious gait; four fingers on each hand; and had what appeared to be no more than three hairs on this head.  He was very untidy in appearance even though attired in a tuxedo and bow-tie (rented, he noted, rather than owned – probably due to the Professor’s ever-expanding waistline), and although he had obviously shaved within the last two hours as could be deduced from the smudge of shaving cream on his right ear, he already had a substantial five o’clock shadow!  There were no obvious outward signs of superior intelligence and yet, this man was regarded as a genius in his field of study ... the words ‘book’ and ‘cover’ came to mind.  He waited until Homer was only a few feet away before addressing him.

“Have a seat, Homer,” he pointed to the seat with his umbrella.

“I don’t wanna sit down – I wanna go for dinner!”

“You must be tired after your long journey from Springfield.  Sit down.”  Mycroft’s voice was calm and quiet as though he was speaking to a frightened pet, the smile on his lips did not quite reach his eyes.  Those who did not know him well would have accepted the sympathetic concern he portrayed at face value, in fact, even those who did know him well would have had trouble discerning the truth.

Homer collapsed despondently into the seat and huffed.  “What do you want?”

“You seem very afraid.  Are you afraid, Homer?”

“Maybe … Uh-huh.”

“There’s really no need.  I just want to talk with you.”

“Can’t I eat while you talk?”

Mycroft frowned at him.  Homer’s phone beeped to announce a text alert and, rather rudely, he immediately removed it from his jacket pocket and looked at the screen.  He discovered that he had missed, not one but four messages.  At last his phone signal had been unblocked!  He scanned through the messages, all were from Mike Stamford who was the person that was supposed to take him to the dinner:

**_# Outside front entrance.  MS #_ **

**_# Are you ready?  I’m outside front entrance!  MS #_ **

**_# Where are you?  MS #_ **

**_# Come at once! We’ll be late.  MS #_ **

“I hope I’m not distracting you.”

“Nope.”

“I have proposal to make to you in connection with your work.”

“I could be wrong but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be.”

“It really couldn’t.”

Mycroft took a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and opened it.  He appeared to study whatever information was written there.  “If you were to accept the proposal which I am about to make, the people I represent would be willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money - enough to ease your personal financial problems.  You have debts amounting to the sum of …”

“Okay, I’ll do it!”

“But I have not yet told you what will be required.”  Mycroft was perplexed, this meeting was not going at all as planned.

Homer’s phone beeped with another text alert:

**_# Can’t wait any longer.  Take a taxi.  You can still make it!  MS #_ **

 

“That’s okay you can fill in the details later.”  Mycroft could tell that Homer’s stress levels were rising again, probably exacerbated by a lack of sugar.  “Can I go. Please, can I go, please, please?”

“You will be contacted with full details of the proposal very shortly.  Homer, you would do well not to disappoint me in this venture.  Do not discuss this meeting with anyone – I will know if you do.”

“D’oh, I’m not stupid you know!”

Mycroft leaned closer and whispered, “Welcome to London,” before he turned and sauntered away swinging his umbrella. 

The car door opened and the woman stepped out and walked toward him.  “I’m to take you back.”

Homer’s phone beeped again, and he stopped to look at yet another new message:

**_# Dinner is being served! MS #_**

 

“Nooooooo!” he was devastated, the drive here had taken about an hour and a half, the return journey would take the same - he would miss the dinner!  He looked pleadingly at the woman, and asked in a rather pathetically small voice, “Can we stop for food?”

“No.”

“OOOOOhhhhhhh,” he whined once more.

He would have whined even more loudly, thought Anthea, if he knew that the car had taken a very circuitous route from the hotel to the warehouse - the direct route would have taken a mere 20 minutes … and, he was being returned to the hotel via the same very circuitous route.  She put her earphones in and turned up the music.


	6. Whatever It Takes

Mycroft stood staring out the window in silence, he had been standing in the same spot for almost half an hour, contemplating the next step in his plan.  He ignored the files that lay open on his desk requiring his urgent, undivided attention – for the moment at least, he had only one thing on his mind.  He reached across to his desk and pressed the intercom button, “Anthea, would you come through, please?”

A few seconds later there was a knock on his door and she entered.  “Close the door, please.”  Mycroft waved a hand in the direction of the chair in front of his desk, “Have a seat.”  He turned back to the window, “Anthea, there is something I would like you to do for me.”

“Sounds serious, do you wish someone to be … deleted?”

“Del …? No, good heavens, no!  Whatever gave you that idea?” he was genuinely surprised by her question.  “No, I assure you it’s nothing dangerous or nefarious, just very … um … sensitive.”

“I _was_ only kidding.  I just wanted to see the look on your face.”

“Really!”  Mycroft shook his head and gave a small sigh of exasperation, before finally sitting down at the desk.  “I hesitate to ask this, but I have a request of a personal nature - which you may decline if you so wish.”

This time Anthea was the one to be surprised, as Mycroft seldom ever mentioned anything of a personal nature, let alone made personal requests of her.

“There must be no record made of this operation, and nothing that will lead back to me or this office.  Understood?”

“Yes, sir.  Of course.” 

Mycroft relaxed, he knew that Anthea was totally dependable.  She was not only the best PA who had ever worked for him, but the title 'PA' was merely a convenient cover for her real function  - she was his head of personal security, and had a wealth of experience, both as an undercover operative and sometimes as controller of covert operations. 

“There is a certain item I wish to obtain from a certain online seller …” he stopped as Anthea’s mouth fell open in amazement.  “Yes,” he raised his hand and placed his right index finger under her chin and gently pushed upward closing her mouth, “you are correct.”

“Why would you want … it?  I didn’t think you were that big a fan.”

“That is irrelevant.  Will you undertake the task?”

“Of course.  I have just two questions, well three actually: the first, how high are you prepared to bid; the second, how do you want to make payment?”

“The answer to the first is – whatever it takes and, to the second - can we put it on one of off-the-books cards?”

“Surely you don’t want this put on a Government Procurement Card?  What if we’re audited or get a Freedom of Information request – even classifying it as secret won’t protect ‘us’ if it is considered to be in the public interest to release the information.  Need I remind you of the headlines in the Daily Telegraph during the fiasco of the MPs expenses scandal e.g. the floating duck houses, the moat cleaning claims, and the John Lewis list – to name but a few!  As I recall YOU were highly critical at the time.”

“How could one forget? Errr, yes, you are of course quite correct, it would be most improper.”

“And, embarrassing!  I mean, I can see the headlines now – 'Top Civil Servant Uses Taxpayers Money To Fund Secret Fetish' …”

Mycroft interrupted her, “Yes, yes, all right, I get it!  Thank you!”

“Good,” she smirked.

He drew a deep breath before trying again.  “Very well.  Anthea, would you, please, sort out the bidding side of things?  I will take care of the payment.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

“And, the third?”

“Pardon?”

“You said that you had three questions, but have asked only two.”

“Oh, yes, I was wondering, do you happen to have a pair of red shorts among your Baywatch memorabilia?”

“Well, if I do, there is no chance that you’ll be seeing them!”

“You are a spoilsport, sir!  I shall go and set up an account on eBay - do you have any suggestions for a ‘user name’?”

“Just use your imagination – I’m sure you can think of something.”

“Right, I’ll get on it at once.”  She already had a fitting user name in mind.

 

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Mycroft looked up from his desk as Anthea entered carrying the tea tray, bearing two cups of tea - it was customary for them to take tea together while they quickly ran through the business of the day, and discussed any outstanding issues which required urgent action by one, or both, of them.  As they finished, Anthea looked at her watch, “You next visitors should arrive any minute – shall I show them straight in or keep them waiting?”  From a psychological perspective, for most people, being kept waiting outside Mycroft Holmes’ door, was like being kept waiting to see the headmaster – not a pleasant experience.  However, it served as a useful reminder, should one ever be required, of Mycroft's status, and made them all the more anxious to gain his approval.

“Oh, I think we can let them off easy today – send them straight through.”

“And finally, sir, ‘Project It’ (that’s what I’m calling) is a go!  We will know the outcome at 8:23 pm local time, PST, twelve days from now.”

“8:23 pm?  That’s 3:23 am here – you’re going to sit up all night?”

“Well, whilst, I do like you to believe I am totally devoted to you, I have to confess to using an auction sniper.”

“And, what pray tell is an ‘auction sniper’ when it’s at home?”

“It’s an electronic tool which submits your bid in the very last seconds of the auction, reducing the chances of you being out-bid.  You bid only once, and bid the highest amount you are prepared to pay and let the auction sniper do the rest.”

“And what is our highest amount?”

“It is YOUR highest amount and you really don’t want to know the figure.”

“Right …. I think.”

“And, sir, the Detective Inspector has been trying to reach you – he is most persistent.  He complains that you’re not returning his calls or texts.”

“Would you apologise on my behalf?  Tell him I’m completely tied up this week.”

Anthea raised her eyebrows at him.  “Any idea when you _will_ be available to speak with him?  He’s bound to ask.”

“Just pass the message to him, please.”

“Very well, sir.”  She could not completely keep the note of petulance from her voice at his response, she was getting tired of fobbing off Lestrade without any explanations from Mycroft.  She opened to door to leave then turned back, “The Foreign Secretary and his Deputy, are here, sir.”  She stepped through into her own office.  “Mr Holmes will see you now, gentlemen.  Please go straight in.”

As the door closed behind them, she heard Mycroft greet them, “Boris, Alan, good to see you.  Thanks for coming.  I do hope you've not been kept waiting?”


	7. Ambush At Krusty's

Homer sat behind the wheel of his car, parked at Krusty Burger, drooling over a snack of Deep fried Krusty Burger with gravey scrapems and extra-large curly fries, all washed down by a Krusty Partially Gelatinated Non-Dairy Gum-Based Beverage, to keep him going until lunchtime.

A guy on a skateboard stopped at the side of his car and knocked on the window.   Homer opened the window.  “Can’t you see I’m eating!” he griped.

“Dude, you dropped your phone.”  A phone was tossed into the car, landing in the middle of his fries.

“It’s not mine, I have mine here – look!” he held up his own phone but the guy was already almost out of sight.  He glanced down at the phone he had been given.  There was a post-it note attached to it, it read simply, “Turn on the phone, Professor.”  He looked around nervously but could see nothing unusual, no one appeared to be watching him. He activated the phone and a few seconds later it rang. He raised it to his ear and said nervously, “Hello.”

“Good morning, Professor Simpson.  Do you recognise my voice?”

“Yes, you made me miss my dinner!”

“Oh dear, I do hope you do not bear a grudge, Professor, as I am sure what I am about to say will more than make up for one missed dinner.”  Homer snorted derisively.  “Now, now, don’t be like that, you and I are about to become good …” Mycroft hesitated, ‘friends’ was too strong a word, he settled instead for “acquaintances.”.

“Really?” 

“Yes, indeed.  This is what is going to happen.  I am aware of your recently published scientific paper ‘Stem Cell Research – Regenerative Medicine and Overcoming the Auto-immune Response’.”

“Uh-huh, go on.”

“Two weeks from now you will receive a package containing a sample of human tissue ...”

“What kind of human tissue?”

 “Hair follicles.”

“I don’t think I heard you right, I thought you said ‘hair follicles’?”

“I did,” Mycroft confirmed.  “If I may continue without further interruption?”

“Okkkaaayyy.”

“Good.  As I was saying, two weeks from today you will receive a package, delivered to you at your place of work.  Therein, you will find two things: one being a number of human hairs; the other, the report on a DNA test previously carried out on a test subject.  You will first confirm that the hair sample provides sufficient viable DNA for this experiment, and second, if it does, you will then verify that the DNA of the hairs matches that of the provided record.  And finally, if a match is confirmed, you will develop an efficacious treatment for male pattern hair loss using the hair follicles as the source material.”  Mycroft marvelled at the way he had made it sound all so simple.

“But hair follicles … seriously?”

“Yes.  Is that a problem?”

“I don’t know, it’s just that I’ve never experimented using hair follicles ... never even thought about it!”

“Bur theoretically, at least, it could work?”

“I suppose but I can’t guarantee it.”

“Nonsense, I have the utmost confidence in your abilities.”

“You ... you do?”

“Yes, of course, I do,” Mycroft lied, but he was so desperate he would have done or said anything.  “I will contact you two days after the delivery of the sample to check that it meets the requirement.  If it does, you will have 4 weeks from that date to develop and deliver the treatment ready for use on a human subject.”

“Nope.”

“What do you mean ‘nope’?”

“Nope. As in, it can’t be done.  It’ll take years of testing …”

Mycroft interrupted impatiently, “Yes, yes, in normal circumstances, yes, I would agree, but this is a private venture and extensive testing and licencing will not be required.  There will be no comeback on you or your work, no risks, no liabilities.  In return, upon completion, $15,000 will be deposited immediately into your personal bank account from an untraceable source, and you will receive a further $10,000 for delivery made on-time.  You need not concern yourself with academic or propriety rights, these shall reside with you.  As you must be aware there would be a lucrative market for this product – and YOU will be the prime beneficiary.  The people I represent have no interest in making financial gains from this.”

“Whoa, twenty-five thousand dollars!?  Yipeeee!"  There was a pause as Homer's brain caught up with what he had just been told.  "Wait a minute, wait a minute, what if it doesn’t work?  What then, do I still get paid?"”

“Professor, if you are the genius you are reputed to be, I am sure failure is not a possibility. “

“Really?”

“Really.  I believe in Homer Simpson!” he said, again lying though his teeth.  “I remind you that this matter must not be discussed with _anyone_ – I will know immediately if it is, and retribution will be swift.  Do you understand?”

“Y…. yes, I understand.”

“Now, look to your left.  There is a metal waste bin.  Do you see the metal waste bin?”

“Yes.”

“Get out of the car.  Walk over to the metal waste bin and put the phone in it, then turn and walk away … slowly.  Do not draw attention to yourself.  This is a single use phone and it will self-destruct in …”

“There’s a bomb in phone?” there was an edge of panic in Homer’s voice.

“No, don’t be ridiculous, this isn’t an episode from Mission Impossible.  No, it’s a Samsung Note 7, that is what they do, combust spontaneously … ten seconds from … now.   Ten, nine, eight ...”

Homer leapt from the car, ran to the waste bin and threw the phone in.  Almost immediately smoke began pouring from the phone and it burst into flames setting the waste bin alight.  He turned and ran away before anyone accused him of vandalism or even worse terrorism.


	8. Game On!

Mycroft was still awake, like a child (though not a Holmes) on Christmas eve he was unable to sleep, his mind running through all the possible scenarios and outcomes of the experimental treatment on which he was pinning his hopes.  Usually in complete control of his though processes, he found himself totally unable to think of anything other than the treatment.  He sighed, there was no way he would get any sleep tonight.  He got out of bed and went downstairs to his study, where he poured himself a whisky and began checking his phone messages.  After a few minutes he found his mind wandering again - maybe a few games of 'Bad Piggies' would help ... it was a secret vice, strangely therapeutic, it held a fascination for him which he could not explain.

He jumped when a text alert sounded - it was one word, from Anthea, “Success!”, sent at 3:24 am, so she must have stayed up for the end of the auction after all.

"Success!", if he had been a footballer, he would have run around his study with his shirt pulled up over his head, instead he settled for punching the air and a quiet shout of “Yeeesssss!” - even that though would have shocked anyone who knew him.  He sat back and smiled, savouring the feeling of satisfaction that filled him. “Just you wait and see!  Just you wait and see!” he said to everyone and no-one.

Now, just maybe, he could get a couple of hours sleep before work.  His phone pinged again – he wanted to ignore it, but perhaps it was Anthea with some further news of the eBay purchase.  He checked, no, it was from Detective Inspector Lestrade requesting a face to face meeting at the earliest opportunity.  This was now the third missed message, he felt obligated to respond as the matter now appeared urgent.  He began to text:

**_# I regret that it is not possible to meet with you.  I am currently engaged in delicate negotiations requiring my entire attention, and will be for several days.  Please forward case files etc to A.  I will examine them time permits.  Regards MH #_ **

He regretted sending the message but there was nothing else for it – he could not bring himself to let Gregory see him, not yet, not while he still looked like this.  He had to be strong, he had to stay focused, he had to think of the bigger picture - the prize was worth the wait!  Perhaps he should just do a few more miles on the treadmill rather than going back to bed ...

 

�     �     �      �     �     �     �     �     �     �    �     �     �     �     �     �     �

The next morning, Mycroft was already waiting on his doorstep for the car to arrive, in fact, he had been waiting there for at least fifteen minutes.  James, his chauffeur eyed him curiously as he opened the car door for him, "Good morning, Mr Holmes, is everything all right?”

“Couldn’t be better, James, thank you.”  He slid into his usual seat, greeting Anthea as he did so.  He looked at her expectantly, and she handed him her phone, the screen showing the eBay page detailing her successful bid for ‘IT’.  “Oh, well done indeed, Anthea, thank you!  I thought you weren’t going to stay up for the auction to close?”

“I didn’t plan to, but I couldn’t sleep.  I did use the action sniper though - much more efficient.”

“So, what was the damage?”

“A little less than expected, sir – it comes to $8.42 including P&P,” she stifled a laugh.  “Guess he wasn’t so popular after all – did you know that clippings of Justin Bieber's hair fetched $40,668 in 2011?”

“Ginger-Nuts?” Mycroft’s eyebrows rose as he spotted the name of the buyer, “I can’t believe you selected that as the buyer’s name!”

“What?” Anthea put her ‘innocent-little-me’ face on.  “It somehow seemed appropriate.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together in a forced smiled, “Laugh on, my friend, but remember this - he who laughs last, laughs longest – and I shall.”  He handed the phone back.

“And why would that be?”

“Wait and see!”

“When you have completed the payment, the item will be posted by the seller to the letter drop address – Emile Valladon, c/o The Yellow Canary Pet Shop, 32 Ashdown Street, Seattle - the shop has been vacant for some time.  One of our local agents has taken out a short-term lease and will retrieve the item, and deliver it as per your instructions.”

“Thank you, my dear – _you_ can have tomorrow off.”

“Really?”

“No, only kidding.  Just wanted to see the look on your face.”

Anthea glared at him, “Have you noticed all the ads for senior PA’s on the Civil Service Jobs website?”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, trying to sound confident but there was a _soupçon_ of doubt in his voice that he was unable to hide.

“No, but not laughing now though, are you?” she replied smugly.

“No, not now, but soon!  Now please send me the account details and password.”  He pulled out his phone just as the text alert sounded and after typing for a few seconds announced, “My intermediary will make the payment immediately.”


	9. None So Deaf

Two days after delivery of the hair sample and DNA record, Homer arrived at his workplace to find a small package lying on his desk.  The packaging bore no name and address, or stamps, nor was there an accompanying delivery note – in short, he had no idea where it had come from.  Nevertheless, ignoring all the University’s instructions to the contrary regarding the receipt and handling of unidentified or suspicious packages, he picked it up and shook it.  Satisfied that the package didn’t _sound_  as though it contained anything suspicious or that he ought to be concerned about, he proceeded to open it.  Inside, he found a mobile phone exactly like the first one he had been given in Krusty’s car park, there was a note stuck to the front, again exactly like first time.  He turned the phone on and waited for the promised call.  He didn’t have to wait for long.

Mycroft got straight to the point without wasting too much time on the usual niceties of phone etiquette, “Good morning, Professor Simpson.  Did you receive the package of which I spoke?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And, do you have the results of the testing?”

“Yes, but I don’t think …” Homer was abruptly interrupted.

“Just answer the questions, Professor,” Mycroft’s impatience was evident. “First, did you find sufficient viable DNA on the hair sample to develop the treatment?”

“Yes, but …” he clenched his teeth as he was interrupted again.

“And does the DNA from the hair match that of the record provided?”

“Yes, but …” yet again, he was interrupted.  He growled in annoyance, he was getting tired of this!

“Excellent!  You will now proceed as previously directed.  You have 4 weeks in which to develop and deliver the treatment ready for use on a human subject.  Do you understand?”

Homer yelled into the phone trying to get a word of his own in, “YES, BUT I DON’T THINK YOU WANT TO …”

“Thank you …”

“WOULD YOU LET ME SAY SOMETHING ..”

“You now have 10 seconds to dispose of the phone.  Goodbye.” 

The phone line went dead as the call was terminated.  Phone in hand, Homer desperately ran around the room looking for somewhere to safely dispose of it, “Noooooooooo”.  Panicking, he ran to the open window and lobbed the phone out of it, then threw himself to the floor and covered his head.  He waited. Nothing happened.  After a couple of minutes, he got up and cautiously looked out of the window, the phone lay on the ground 10 metres below.   He stuck his head out of the window for a better look, “Nah, that one was a dud!”  He chuckled in relief.  “I knew it all along.  Stupid phone.”  The phone chose that very second to burst into flames and explode.  “D’oh-oh!”  He quickly closed the window and hid in the room across the corridor.


	10. Delivery Day

Today was **the** day and Mycroft could barely conceal his excitement.  It was the day the package would arrive from Professor Simpson.  It was the day a whole new world of possibilities would open for him!

He called through to Anthea, “I am awaiting the delivery of a package via Secure Messenger Services – please inform Front Desk Reception, and have them arrange for the bearer to be escorted to my office upon arrival.”

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Anthea."

Mycroft opened his mailbox to read the latest in a never-ending torrent of emails on the subject of BREXIT, all of which were seemingly for _his_ action.  The big push was on: according to some, the negotiations would be all over by Christmas – the question was, which Christmas were they talking about?  He ploughed on … and on … and on, knowing that whatever he did or recommended, it would in the end be a thankless task.  And, unless he was very, very careful, it would bite him on the bum as the Politicians sought to distance themselves from any failure.  After an hour or so of this mind-numbing exercise, he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts returning to his primary concern, that of the package he awaited.

He was so lost in thought that he almost leapt from his seat at the sound of knocking.  He forced himself to remain composed as he picked up his pen and leaned over a file lying on his desk, to give the appearance of having been interrupted at this work before calling, “Enter.”

Anthea opened the door and announced the arrival of messenger with **the** package.  Mycroft put the pen down and closed the file, “Very good, please send the messenger in.”  The messenger entered carrying a locked metal box which was chained to his left wrist.  “Please deposit the box on the table,” Mycroft indicated the table with a wave of his hand. 

The messenger unlocked the chain from his wrist and removed a pad from his inside pocket, “I need a signature for the package, sir.”  He flicked through the pad and handed it over, open at the correct page for Mycroft to sign.

“Thank you.  Anthea, return this gentleman to the security escort,” he handed the receipt pad back to the messenger.

�     �     �     �     �     �     �    �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �

 

Mycroft broke the security seal on the metal box then unlocked it and opened the lid.  He stood staring reverently at the box for a full minute before reaching out to remove the cardboard package that sat inside. On opening the package, the first thing he saw was a sealed envelope sitting on top of the internal polystyrene packing, he picked it up and read the typed note on the front.

**_Operating Instructions for Use –_ **

**_follow these instructions carefully to ensure the safe and successful application of this product._ **

_Disclaimer: The user confirms that he/she understands and accepts that this is an untested, unlicensed product, and accepts all responsibilities and liabilities arising from its use_.

Mycroft put the unopened envelope down and turned his attention back to the contents of the box.  Carefully, he removed the top layer of the polystyrene packing and placed it next to the envelope on his desk.  At last he was able reach into the box to take out the object of his dreams!

He tried to ignore the mild surprise and, if he had to be honest, the disappointment, he felt when his eyes first beheld it, for it was nothing like the high-tech apparatus he had expected.  No, it looked more like one of those old-fashioned round motorcycle crash Helmets - it was a vivid, fluorescent pink with black lettering, L I S A, in a large, bold font, across the left and right sides, the letters interspersed with silver stars.  Muttering - 'Keep calm!  Keep calm !'- he reminded himself that this was only an experimental prototype, not the streamlined design that would surely be produced later for sale on the open market – its appearance was immaterial to its function, the most important thing was that it should work!  He looked more closely at the Helmet, noting the two electrical sockets which would sit on either side of the frontal part of his head and the layer of, was that green foam or gel? that covered the inner surface of that same area.  The overall impression was not so much Heath-Robinson, as Wallace and Gromit!  He removed the remainder of the contents from the box - a control unit, several electrical cables, and a transparent plastic container holding several small bottles of creams and liquids, and a bundle of antiseptic wipes. 

He fought down the impulse to don the Helmet and try the thing out right there and then, but no, he would wait until his privacy would be guaranteed – there was no need for anyone else to know what he was planning to do.  He replaced the contents in the box and locked it away in his security cabinet.  This was a bank holiday weekend – there would be time enough to study the instructions and do this properly in an unhurried manner at home.  No, wait, what if Sherlock decided to break-in as he was wont to do, far too frequently, to either snoop on Mycroft or simply to demonstrate his ability to defeat his brother’s security arrangements.  He decided to remain at the office where even Sherlock would think twice before breaking-in. 

There was a knock on his door and Anthea appeared.  “The report you requested on that ‘Fake News’ story regarding the veracity of Her Majesty’s birth certificate has just arrived – MI6 investigations confirm it did indeed emanate from the Whitehouse.  I’ve forwarded it to your inbox.  Oh, and he’s still tweeting.”

“Why am I not surprised?”  He checked his watch, “Thank you, Anthea.  Look, it’s after 5:30, why don’t you pack up for the evening and go home.”

“And, what about you, sir.”

“Oh, I’ll stay on a little longer, I’ll have a look at that report.”

Glancing up he saw her look around as though searching for something – her eyes coming to rest on his locked security cabinet.  He knew what she was thinking – she was curious about the mysterious package - sometimes having someone as smart as Anthea around was … challenging.  He brazened it out, “Was there something else?”

“Only that Detective Inspector Lestrade has again asked for a meeting, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“But, sir, …”

“I will take care of it.”

“Very well, please do – I find it embarrassing having to keep fobbing him off.”

“I will take care of it,” Mycroft was annoyed at being pressed on the matter but he knew that, in truth, Anthea was not the cause of his discomfort.   He took a conciliatory tone, “Please put an out-of-office in my calendar.  Also, inform the switchboard that I will be unavailable until my return to the office on Tuesday - tell them to say to anyone who asks, that I am out of communications range for the duration – that includes Number 10 and my brother.  And on your way out, tell Security and the Reception Desk the same.  Emphasise to all that I am not be disturbed for any reason.”

“Yes, sir.  Will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you.  Enjoy your weekend – I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Don’t work too late now.”

"Oh, I don't intend doing so, I have other plans."


	11. The Slippery Slope

No sooner had Anthea departed from her office for her long Bank Holiday weekend, than Mycroft had jumped up from his seat, opened his security cabinet and removed the box which he had deposited there earlier in the day.  He took it through to his private bathroom and cleared a space on top of the marble vanity unit, then began removing the contents of the box one by one, and carefully laid them out.  He found the instructions and began to read – they were simpler than he had imagined. 

First – check contents of the box against the list below to ensure the kit is complete.  He grabbed a pen and ticking off each item as he came to it:

 

Part No.    Description                                          No. of Pieces

1 ............ Helmet                                                              1  
2 ............ Helmet Connector Cable (Red)                           1  
3 ............ Helmet Connector Cable (Green)                        1  
4 ............ Master Control Unit                                           1  
5 ............ Power cable with wall plug (100-240v)               1  
6 ............ Pre-treatment shampoo                                     1  
7 ............ Pre-treatment enriched scalp massage oil          1  
8 ............ Post treatment shampoo                                    20  
9 ............ Post-treatment enriched scalp massage oil        20  
10 .......... Hygiene scalp wipes with soothing aloe vera      100

 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the end of the list – the kit was complete.  However, he required a travel adapter for the plug fitted to the power cable was the standard 2-pin type used in the USA, he surely must have one around somewhere.  Think, think!  He stopped and looked at himself in the mirror – calm down and think!  Yes, in his shaving kit!  He dug it out and grasped it tightly in his fist. Relief!

He returned to his desk with the instructions: 

**_Operating Instructions for Use –_ **

**_follow these instructions carefully to ensure the safe and successful application of this product._ **

_Disclaimer: The user confirms that he/she understands and accepts that this is an untested, unlicensed product, and accepts all responsibilities and liabilities arising from its use_.

**_TO ENSURE COMPLETE SUCCESS THESE INSTRUCTIONS MUST BE FOLLOWED CLOSELY AND TIMINGS MUST BE EXACT.  FAILURE TO DO WILL REDUCE THE LIKELIHOOD OF A SUCCESSFUL OUTCOME._ **

Step 1:  Set up the Helmet (Part No. 1) ready for use BEFORE proceeding the Step 2.  Connect the red connector cable (Part No. 2) into the socket marked A on the top of the Helmet, and the green connector cable (Part No. 3) into the socket marked B.  Plug the other end of the cables into corresponding sockets of the master control unit (Part No. 4).  Plug the power cable (Part No. 5) into the control unit and the other end into the wall power outlet.  Check all connections before switching on the control unit using the ON/OFF switch.  If the GREEN indicator lights up the unit is functioning correctly – if it does not light up re-check all connections and power input, if the problem persists call the helpline.  If the GREEN indicator lights up, you may proceed to Step 2!

Step 2:  To prepare your scalp the first step is to gently shampoo your hair (full scalp) for 90 seconds, using the bottle marked ‘PRE-TREATMENT SHAMPOO’ (Part No. 6).  Finish by rinsing your hair well.  Do not rub dry or use an electric hairdryer!  Pat with a towel to remove excess moisture. 

Step 3:  The second step in preparing your scalp is to gently massage the contents of the bottle marked ‘PRE-TREATMENT ENRICHED SCALP MASSAGE OIL’ (Part No. 7) into the entire scalp for 90 seconds.  Do not rinse. Gently comb hair back from your face.

Step 4:  **Immediately** following Step 3 above, place the Helmet on your head and tighten the chinstrap to ensure a close fit.  Next press Button 1 on the remote control to begin a 30-minute stimulation of your scalp which will promote the successful seeding and generation of new hair follicles in a randomised, natural distribution.  When this cycle is complete the Helmet will automatically initiate the next stage, which is to inject the miracle hair growth serum into the frontal area of your scalp using thousands of tiny needles, this will last for 60 seconds.  Do not be alarmed if this causes some slight discomfort.  The needles will then withdraw and the scalp stimulation cycle will resume.  The entire process will last a total of 12 hours at the end of which the power will automatically switch off and you can safely remove the Helmet from you head.

Step 5:  Using one of the hygiene wipes (Part No. 10) provided gently dab the scalp to remove any traces of blood.

Step 6:   For each of the following 10 days – both mornings and evenings:

Shampoo hair (full scalp) for 90 seconds using a bottle marked ‘POST TREATMENT SHAMPOO’ (Part No. 8) and pat hair dry with as towel to remove excess moisture.  Next gently massage contents of a bottle marked ‘POST TREATMENT ENRICHED SCALP MASSAGE OIL’ (Part No. 9), into the entire scalp for 90 seconds.  DO NOT RINSE THE OIL FROM YOUR HAIR.  Gently comb hair.  Leave hair to dry naturally.

**CAUTION: DO NOT OVER-EXPOSE YOUR SCALP TO THE ELEMENTS DURING THE TREATMENTS.**

 

Well, it all seemed simple enough.  If he started at 7pm, he would be finished by 9am, and home by 10am.  His stomach grumbled reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.  He knew Anthea kept the office fridge well supplied and decided to try his luck there.

The first thing he saw on opening the fridge door was Anthea’s lunchbox - so she’d missed lunch as well today, too bad for her!  He checked the contents of the lunchbox and found a large bagel filled with bacon, tomato, cream cheese and guacamole – a Stars & Stripes, he recalled.   There was also a very large triple choc muffin, crisps and an apple.  How on earth could she eat all that for lunch, and still keep her figure, when he put the pounds on just looking at it?!  He rummaged around the fridge and found a mars bar and a can of coke.   He took his haul back to his office and placed it on the coffee table between the chesterfield sofa and armchairs.  “Tea,” he said, talking to himself, and headed back to Anthea’s room.  He checked that there was enough water in the kettle before switching it on. 

Waiting for the kettle to boil, he took a deep breath and stretched, releasing his breath slowly, “Relax, relax”.  He checked his phone – a message from Mummy with some photographs of her and Father competing in the qualifying heats of the UK National Over 70’s Line Dancing Championships, which he swiped his way through, completely oblivious that he was smiling fondly as he viewed them.  Another new message from Lestrade – no, he wasn’t ready, he couldn’t speak with him yet.  He considered just ignoring message, but thought better of it.  Instead he texted back, apologising that he would be unavailable over the Bank Holiday, then turned his phone off in case Lestrade phoned him back, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.  

Making himself more comfortable, he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, loosened his tie, then removed his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves.  He busied himself preparing the teapot and arranging a china cup and saucer, milk and sugar on a tray.   He poured the freshly boiled water into the teapot then covered it with the tea-cosy to keep it warm.  As he lifted the tray he spotted the biscuit tin and added it to his haul on the coffee table.

His stomach grumbled again, tempting him to dig in there and then, but the urge to commence the treatment was more powerful and he headed for the bathroom where he had laid everything out and gathered up the Helmet, electrical wires and control unit.

‘Time to get this show on the road!’


	12. Switch On

Mycroft sat at his desk, the Helmet with all its wires and cables, lay spread out in front of him - he read the instructions once more before proceeding with the assembly.  When it was complete, he checked and re-checked the connections, then plugged the power cable into the socket behind his chair.  He paused and closed his eyes, his finger resting on the power switch, as he offered up a silent prayer which ended with, 'This Is it!  Please, please, work!'  Finally, he pressed the button and hesitantly opened his eyes to see the green indicator light begin to glow.  He released the breath he had been unconsciously holding, 'Oh, yes, thank you god, it's working!'  

He returned to the bathroom to begin Step 2 - the pre-treatment shampoo.  He removed his clothing and stepped into the shower clutching the bottle of ‘Pre-treatment Shampoo’ as though it was liquid gold, and stood under the warm water, relaxing as it ran over him.  After washing his body, he turned off the water, took the shampoo and carefully poured it into the palm of his hand.  He inspected it – it looked no different from his usual shampoo, the smell was curious but inoffensive.  He raised his hand and spread the shampoo over his head, then massaged it into his hair for the required 90 seconds before turning the shower back on to rinse it off. He stepped out of the shower and quickly towelled his body dry, then wrapped the towel around his waist and took another to gently pat his hair dry.  Step 2 complete, he moved on to Step 3.

Standing in front of the vanity unit, he poured the contents of the bottle marked ‘Pre-Treatment Enriched Scalp Massage Oil’ carefully in to the palm of his hand, shaking the bottle to ensure it was empty of every last drop.  Then rubbing his palms together to divide the oil evenly between them, he raised them to his head and massaged the oil into his hair making sure that every millimetre of his scalp was well covered.  When the 90 seconds was up, he combed his hair away from his face and inspected the results carefully in the magnifying mirror which enlarged his image by a factor of 10x – Stage 3 was complete - everything looked the same.  ‘Well,’ he asked himself, ‘did you seriously expect anything else?’

Realising that he was wasting valuable time, he rushed back through to his office and grabbed the Helmet.  Then with another silent prayer, he placed it on his head, fastened the chin strap and with only the slightest of hesitation pressed Button 1 on the master control unit.  Almost immediately, he felt the effect of the scalp stimulation stage.  He breathed a sigh of relief and sat down at his desk with his eyed closed waiting for the next stage to begin - the injection of the ‘miracle hair growth serum’ - in 30 minutes time.  It was only then that he realised he was naked, his towel had fallen off in his mad dash from the bathroom.  He gave an involuntary shiver and looked around for his robe - it was lying on the chair just outside the bathroom door where he had thrown it earlier.  He got up to fetch it, only to discover that the power cable was not long enough to reach.  With a sigh of annoyance, he sat back down and waited for the automatic thermostat to adjust the room heating.

He checked his watch – the first thirty minutes would soon be over and the next phase would begin.  He prepared himself for what the instructions had described as ‘ _some slight discomfort’_.   Almost to the exact second, the vibrations emanating from the Helmet changed and heard a click, “Here we go.”  Suddenly he felt as though the top of his head was going to explode!  The pain all across the front of his scalp was agonising and he almost instinctively tore the Helmet from his head; it took all of his determination to resist the urge.  After sixty exceedingly long. painful, seconds, the pain eased a little as the needles retracted back into the green gel.  He groaned – eleven and a half more hours of this, he didn’t know if he would make it.

After another thirty minutes or so, the level of discomfort had fallen enough for him to feel a bit more relaxed.  However, he couldn't help but notice that the temperature of the surrounding air on his naked skin was definitely on the cool side.

He eyed the goodies spread on top of the coffee table – and out of reach!  His mouth watered at the thought of the bagel, he groaned.  He hoped it would be worth the waiting. 


	13. Caught In The Act

Mycroft shivered again and rubbed his hands up and down his arms to warm himself up, the temperature of the office was definitely cooling.   Apparently, the heating was off …  oh, of course, dammit - he recalled seeing the email to all staff advising that, in order to save energy over the bank holiday weekend, the heating would be turned off throughout the building, and that any staff who would be in the office could apply to the Building Services Manager for the loan of an electric heater.  Normally it would not have been a problem as Anthea had an ‘unofficial’ heater of her own (unofficial because staff were forbidden to bring personal electrical items into the office due to health & safety concerns) but it was stored in her office, and out of his reach until he was able to escape the shackles of the Helmet!

His chair, a rather posh leather executive model and usually very comfortable, luxurious even, was rapidly becoming the exact opposite.  The leather stuck to his bare skin and pulled painfully every time he moved rather, it was also becoming cold to the touch.

He considered disconnecting the power cable and making a dash for his robe which lay in the chair across the room from him, but he was afraid that even a few seconds break in the power supply to the Helmet would upset the treatment cycle.  He didn’t dare try it; the instructions clearly stated that failure to follow them exactly would reduce the likelihood of success.  But, maybe if he was very careful not to dislodge the power connections he could stretch just enough to be able to reach it.

He got up from his chair and walked around his desk – he slid the control unit to the edge of the desk and took a couple of steps towards his robe, then inched towards it until the cable was beginning to tighten.  He stretched out his hand but the robe was still several inches out of reach.  Maybe he could hook the trailing edge with his toes and pull it closer.   He stretched out his right foot, balancing on the other whilst trying desperately not to tug on the cables lest he disconnected then from the power source … almost there ... no, just missed … he tried again… suddenly the door burst open.  Oh my god, he had forgotten to lock the door!

Mycroft froze.

The security guard stopped dead and stared at Mycroft – his eyes travelling slowly up the length of his body from his toes, pausing in the middle, and moving up to take in the fluorescent pink Helmet with electrical wires protruding from it.  His mouth hung open.

Mycroft’s brain went into overload for several seconds as he stood balanced precariously on one leg.  He almost fell over.  He was caught between preserving what little dignity he had left or keeping his hands by his sides.  Quickly regaining his balance and his composure, he forced his hands down to his sides and demanded in his most imperious tone of voice, “Don’t you knock?!”  The security guard, mouth still gawping like a goldfish, seemed to be in a state of shock.  “Well?”

“S … S… Sorry, sir,” his eyes tracking back down Mycroft’s naked body.  “Just doing the rounds.  No one told me you were … er … er … working.  I thought the office was empty.”

“Well, I am and it’s not!”

“Yessir … I mean no sir … I mean…”

“Get out!”  The guard began to back out.  “No, wait.  First, hand me that robe.”

The guard inched nervously towards the robe all the while keeping his eyes on Mycroft, as reached to pick it up, the outer office door, which led into Anthea’s office, began to open and there was a roar of raucous laughter from one … no two females and one male. 

“Oh my god, not the cleaners.  For god’s sake stop them, don’t let them in!  Shut the door!  Shut the door!”  The guard pushed the door shut and turned back to Mycroft who snapped his fingers and pointed, “Robe!  Throw me the robe!”  The robe was thrown in his general direction and he managed to catch it, and quickly pulled it on.  He looked at the guard who continued to gawp at him.  “Now, send the cleaners away, tell them I’m working.  Then get back in here.”

As the guard opened the door, the sound of raucous laughter once again filled the air.  He left the door slightly ajar and Mycroft could hear him talking to the cleaners.  “It’s all right, folks, you can give this one a miss tonight – the bloke in here is … is … working.”  He ushered the cleaners out and returned to Mycroft’s room, resisting the impulse to run away and hide instead.  He stood nervously just inside the door.

Mycroft raised himself up to his full 6’ 1” height, his eyes pinning the guard to the spot, “What you have seen here tonight is never – I repeat NEVER - to be revealed to anyone!  DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?”  the guard nodded in response.  “Good, because if you ever breathe a word about it, I will know and I shall personally see to It that you spend the remainder of what I guarantee will be a miserable existence patrolling the most remote, inhospitable, uninhabited island, I can find.  That is a promise!”

“Yes, sir, I won’t say anything.”

“Right, now get out and lock the door behind you.” As the door closed, he yelled to the retreating guard, “AND MAKE SURE I AM NOT DISTURBED AGAIN, BY ANYONE – IF I AM, HEADS WILL ROLL!  DO YOU HEAR ME?  HEADS WILL ROLL!”

The guard made his exit quickly, grateful to get away from the naked madman.  Mycroft made his way back around his desk and sat down, only then, too late, did he realise the mistake he had made in dismissing the guard so quickly!  Why, oh why, oh why, hadn’t he asked him to fetch his clothes and his mobile phone?  Would someone please tell him what had he ever done to deserve this??  Was there anything else possibly that go wrong tonight?

He momentarily considered swallowing his pride and phoning down to the security room for assistance but that, after what had just happened, would simply have been too humiliating to bear.  He would just have to wait it out for another – he checked his watch -  for another 9 hours and 13 minutes.   He had to hold on, he had to stay positive, think comforting thoughts!  Gregory’s image filled his mind.  Yes, strange as it was he always thought of him and called him Gregory, not Greg as everyone else did – even Gregory referred to himself as Greg.  Wasn’t that odd?  Why did goldfish have such an ingrained propensity for shortening names like that?  He mentally slapped himself – whatever Gregory was, he was most certainly not a goldfish!  Mummy was the worst offender of all; Mikey of all things!  Was Mummy a goldfish?  He weighed up the pros and cons before deciding that she was indeed a goldfish.  After all, he reasoned, her only real area of expertise lay in the field of mathematics, and her only published work ‘The Dynamics of Combustion’ had not exactly flown off the shelves - even allowing for the limited market.  His thoughts returned to Gregory – what would he say to him?  Would he have the courage to ask him out?  Would Gregory accept the invitation?  What if he said no?  How would he know if the time was right to ask?  A never-ending torrent of questions flooded into his mind.


	14. Trapped

Mycroft had set the alarm to warn him that the final stage of the treatment was coming to an end but had, nevertheless, spent the last hour watching the seconds tick by very, very slowly, unable to tear his eyes from the clock.  Immediately the countdown to zero finished he unplugged the power cable, grabbed the control unit and rushed into the bathroom.  His hands shook, and his fingers fumbled. as he tried to undo the chinstrap - he cursed with impatience.  Suddenly the buckle opened.  He closed his eyes and slowly raised the Helmet from his head and set it down on the vanity unit.   His knuckles turned white with pressure as he tightly gripped the edge of the washbasin.  He found it impossible to open his eyes, afraid to look at his reflection.  He stood like that for a full minute before he finally managed to open them and look at himself in the mirror.

He was not sure what to expect, realistically he knew that there would be no sign of hair growth, though somewhat illogically, that was exactly what he had hoped to see.  His scalp was noticeably reddened and, when he examined it more closely in the magnifying mirror, he could see a speckled band of minute pinpricks of blood where the new hair follicles had been implanted.  He was relieved to note that they followed what was his natural hairline - when he had had hair, that is.

Following the instructions, he opened one of the antiseptic hygiene wipes and gently dabbed at his skin to remove the blood.  He hissed in pain as the alcohol infusing the wipe made his scalp sting painfully, bringing tears to his eyes.  The ‘soothing aloe vera’, he noted as the tears ran down his face, was not very effective.  After what had felt like an eternity, he completed Step 5 of the treatment, and headed back into his office. 

His pot of tea had long since grown cold, and he decided to make himself a fresh one before tidying away all evidence of his hair restoring treatment to ensure that no-one would ever know about it.  Teapot in hand, he headed to Anthea’s room where the kettle was kept.  He turned the door handle but the door did not open.  “Fuck!” he was not given to swearing but really!  “I don’t believe it!”  He was locked in!  He recalled his yelling at the guard to lock the door, but he had meant the outer door, not his door!  He futilely tried the door handle again before stomping back to his desk and throwing himself into his seat.  This must be divine punishment for something!  “Fuck!”

Deprived of his tea, he instead poured himself a large scotch – typically he would have one in the evenings, never for breakfast!   “Can anything else possibly go wrong?” he asked himself for the umpteenth time.  Maybe he was tempting fate by even voicing the question?  But … what should he do now?

He took stock of his situation: he was locked in his office; his phone and keys were in his jacket pocket - he could visualise placing them there … and then hanging said jacket over the back of a chair in Anthea’s room.  His options: he could phone the building security office and have them open the door or he could stay put until the building re-opened after the public holiday – in 3 days’ time.  Picking the lock to his door was impossible – he himself had selected that particular model for precisely that reason.  He didn’t really have a choice, he would have to eat an extra-large slice of humble pie and phone security.  Decision reached he reached for the desk phone and dialled … the phone at the other end of the line rang out for a few seconds then stopped.  “Hello, this is Mycroft Holmes ...” 

He was interrupted by a recording, “Hello.  You have reached the Department for Transport, I am sorry but the office is closed for the public holiday and will re-open on Tuesday …”  He slammed the phone down.  He picked the handset up again, this time he tried calling Anthea’s mobile, the line went dead.  He tried again, the line went dead.  He tried calling his home number, there would be no reply but it would test the line – it went dead.   Realisation hit, calls to internal numbers were being answered by an automated message, and all calls to external numbers were being blocked!  ‘Heads will roll!’ he winced as he recalled the threat - it gave him no comfort whatsoever that he and his threat had been taken seriously ... very seriously!

So that was it then, he had successfully managed to sever all lines of communication with the outside world and was now trapped in his office until Tuesday …  and it was only Saturday morning.  He chastised himself, ‘So much for having an IQ that's off the scale, hah!  He couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery’.  Anthea would never let him forget this – if she ever found out.

He reconsidered his situation: he wouldn’t starve, he still had his _supplies_ – Anthea’s bagel and giant chocolate muffin, a mars bar, a coke, crisps, tin of biscuits, decanters of scotch and sherry (both half full – for entertaining visitors), and half a pot of cold tea; no kettle but plenty of water from the bathroom tap; no heating but the room temperature would be bearable when fully dressed.

He looked at the food in front of him, calling to him, asking to be eaten.  Hardly a wholesome diet, still it could be worse.  Next decision – should he pig in now or ration himself?  He was tempted, but eating it all in one go would make the enforced imprisonment seem even longer when his stomach next began to rumble.

He elected to eat the bagel – the filling would go off if he left it any longer.  He switched his desktop pc on and waited for it to boot up, it seemed to be taking for ever which surprised him as there should be very few users logged in to the system over the holiday weekend.  When the screen finally opened at the home page there was a message scrolling upward – ‘THE SYSTEM IS CURRENTLY OFF-LINE FOR SCHEDULED MAINTENANCE AND WILL REMAIN UNAVAILABLE TO USERS UNTIL 09:00 ON TUESDAY MORNING.’  Another email he had forgotten in his overeagerness to proceed with the treatment!

"I’m going mad," he whispered to himself, "god, now I’m even talking to myself!”

 


	15. Escape

When Mycroft failed to appear on Tuesday morning for his lift to the office, and did not answer the door or his phone, Anthea reluctantly used the spare set of keys he had given her for use in emergencies.  She knew how much he treasured his privacy and hated the thought of intruding, uninvited, into his private domain.  On opening the front door, she found the house to be quiet and unlit.  She beckoned to James who had remained in the driving seat to join her.  “You check downstairs, I’ll check upstairs.”

Anthea checked the main bedroom which she knew to be Mycroft’s, having on occasion delivered files to him - in defiance of his doctor’s orders to stay away from the office to rest and recuperate from ‘work related injuries’.  The bed had not been slept in, the wash basin and shower tray were dry, as were the towels.

She returned to the ground floor where James stood at the foot of the stairs waiting for her. “Any sign of him,” she asked.

“Nothing – no unwashed dishes, nothing.”

Anthea tried phoning the office, before she could speak the pre-recorded message began. “Hello.  You have reached the Department for Transport, I am sorry but the office is closed for the public holiday and will re-open on Tuesday…” 

She ended the call, “IT IS BLOODY TUESDAY!”  She knew that she should immediately inform the Security Services that Mycroft was missing, but there was a niggle at the back of her mind when she recalled last seeing him on Friday evening … there had been something odd about that.  “James, we’re going to the office – pronto!  We’ll check the boss’ room together.”

“Anything you say.  Do you think something has happened to him?” his concern was obvious.

“I don’t know, so the quicker we get there …”

“Got it!”

�     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �

Anthea was surprised to find her office door locked, recalling that she had not locked it on Friday evening as Mycroft was still in his office.  She unlocked the door and switched on the light.  The first thing she noticed was Mycroft’s jacket hanging on the back of a chair.  Puzzled she tried his door, only to find that it too had been locked.

She selected the correct key from her keyring but was stopped by James before she could insert it into the lock, he whispered, “Let me go in first – just in case.”

She handed over the keys and stepped back, slightly amused by his stereotypical expectation that being the male he was naturally better equipped to deal with whatever lay inside.  Truth be told, she was more than capable - whatever happened!  James slowly pushed the door open.  The room was in complete darkness, the lights were off, the blinds and curtains drawn.  He switched on the overhead light and looked around, “I’ll check the bathroom.”

Anthea stepped into the room and looked around, ‘what on earth has been going on here?'.  She immediately noticed the pile of chocolate and biscuit wrappers, empty whisky decanter … and, was that her lunchbox? … piled on the coffee table.  Beyond that, there was a bundle of … clothing? … no, she could now discern the unmistakable sound of snoring emanating from the bundle.  It was, she realised, Mycroft Holmes, asleep on the sofa.

“I see you found him,” said James as he re-appeared at her side. “Is he okay?”

“Snug as a bug …” The two of them shared a silent giggle which was tinged with relief at finding the boss was safe from harm.  “Thanks, James, you’d better go before he wakes up.  You know how grouchy he’ll be when he realises that we’ve found him out.”

“Righto, I won’t say a word!”

�     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �

Mycroft began to stir as Anthea set the tray bearing tea for him and coffee for her down on the coffee-table.  She sat in an armchair and waited for him to surface.  Finally, looking half-asleep, he sat up.  She examined him closely, his clothes looked as though they had been slept in – for more than one night - he had at least two days stubble, he looked exhausted and was perhaps a little hung-over.

“Good morning, sir.  Tea?”  He grumbled what she took to be ‘good morning’ back to her, but it was somewhat unintelligible.  “You’re looking a bit rough, sir.”

He took a sip of tea.  Suddenly he was fully awake, “What time is it?”

She looked at her watch, “Seven forty-five.”

“Oh, my god, I’m late!” he jumped up and ran to the bathroom, it was time for his next treatment.

“Late for what?  Your first appointment is at 10:00 with Her Majesty.”

“What …  oh, yes, that too!”  He closed the bathroom door behind him leaving Anthea no more the wiser.

�     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �     �

It was almost half an hour before Mycroft emerged from the bathroom, looking his usual, close-shaved, well groomed, immaculate, self.  He gently smoothed his hair, tidying some imaginary out of place hairs.  His scalp was still slightly red from the treatment but would not be so noticeable, he hoped, that it would draw comments.  The tiny pinpricks had disappeared, however, there was still no sign of any hair growth – perhaps he needed a mirror with a higher magnification?  But, it was still early days, he reminded himself, it was still early days.

Anthea appeared with a fresh cup of tea, the last one having gone cold.  “How was your bank holiday, sir?”

He took the tea from her, “I’ll take that as a rhetorical question.”

“Were you here all weekend?” she asked.  Mycroft nodded in response.  “How did you manage to get locked in?  Why didn’t you call security to let you out?”

“Oh, don’t fuss, Anthea.  There was a bit of a mix up but it was my own fault,” he didn’t dare tell her the entire story.  “I decided to stay.  It gave me plenty of time to bone up on Brexit, and several other issues which I had, of necessity, put on the back burner - without either the usual business interruptions or unscheduled visits from Sherlock.  A very productive few days, in fact.”  His stomach grumbled loudly, “I had plenty of supplies to keep me going.” 

The pile of litter she had cleared from the coffee table had been more than ample evidence that, despite the signals from his stomach, he had not exactly gone hungry!  “Never mind Brexit, what about breakfast?  I’m nipping down to the staff restaurant for a bacon roll, would you like one?”

“Love one – brown sauce.  Please.”  The thought of it made his mouth water in anticipation.  He seldom indulged in food from the staff restaurant, but he could hardly visit with Her Majesty when his stomach was being so inconsiderately rude!  That was his excuse and he was sticking to it!  He would pay for it later on the treadmill ...

He watched her as she walked away, ‘How _does_ she do that,?’ he wondered enviously, ‘Her lunchbox was stuffed with goodies **and** she eats bacon rolls, as well!  All that, and she never seems to put on any weight!  I’ll have to ask what her secret is!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - POSSIBLE TRIGGER: Chapter 16, which follows, contains references to someone being chased by dogs. Nothing really bad happens, however you may wish to skip the chapter - you can do so without any major negative impact on the story line.


	16. Hounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING - POSSIBLE TRIGGER:** This Chapter contains references to someone being chased by dogs. Nothing really bad happens, however you may wish to skip the chapter - you can do so without any major negative impact on the story line.

After having been cooped up in his office for 4 days Mycroft felt the need to stretch his legs and get some fresh air.  He decided to walk back to Whitehall from the Palace via St James’ Park after his visit with Her Majesty.  It was a fine day, warm but overcast so no risk of over exposure of his tender scalp to the sun.  He walked briskly, swinging his umbrella with one hand as he went, clutching a small paper bag holding two slices of cake which Her Majesty had insisted he take back to the office for afternoon tea with Anthea, in the other.

He was nearing the Horse Guards Gate exit when he heard a shout behind him, “Toby, come back!  Toby!”.  He looked back over his shoulder to see a giant hound running straight at him, its owner giving chase.  Mycroft bolted for the exit, running as fast as his long legs would carry him but he wasn’t fast enough.  Toby was right behind him.  He backed up against the railings as the dog caught up with him.  He threw the bag of cake at it but the bag went ignored Toby.  He scrambled for his phone but it somehow managed to escape his grip and fell to the ground.

Mycroft raised his umbrella to strike out in defence but Toby suddenly stopped and began sniffing the air.  He could hear other dog owners calling their pets back and looked toward them to see several other dogs running in his direction.  Oh my god, I’m going to die!  He closed his eyes preparing himself for the end when he felt Toby grab his leg and … begin …  he opened his eyes and looked down to see Toby humping it?!  Oh shit!  The other dogs caught up and began sniffing around him.  “GET THEM AWAY!  GET THEM AWAY!” he screamed at the owners as they ran up to reclaim their dog.  Toby’s owner tried desperately to pull it off Mycroft’s legs.  The excited dogs were finally dragged away but continued straining at their leads to get back to him.

“I am so sorry,” said the man who held Toby by the collar as he strained to get back to Mycroft.  “I am so sorry, he’s not usually this, uummm, friendly.”

“Blimey, mate, what did you have in that bag?  Prime steak?” asked the owner of a Chihuahua named Tyson.

Mycroft’s security detail finally appeared.  “Where the hell have you been?” he yelled at them angrily.

Without a word, they grabbed him by the arms and hustled him toward the park gate, just beyond which his limo was waiting.  Then they all but threw him in the back and the car immediately sped off.  Mycroft sat on the floor in shock, his whole body shaking with the adrenaline that surged through him, he felt as though everything was spiralling out of control and he was teetering on the verge of hysteria.

It was several seconds before he realised that the driver was speaking.  “What?!”

“Sorry, sir, where would you like me to take you?”

“My office, of course!” 

“Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir.”

Mycroft drew a deep breath and counted to ten.  “No, I’m sorry for snapping.  It’s not your fault, James.  Take me to the office, please.”  He pulled himself up into the seat and tried smoothing his rumpled clothing.

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Anthea was startled as Mycroft barged in through the outer office door and slammed it behind him.  Of course, she had been alerted when he entered the building and was expecting his arrival but his entrance had been rather dramatic. 

“Tea!” he demanded as he stormed past her.

“And, good afternoon to you too, sir.”  She got up from her desk and followed him into his room.  “You look a tad flustered, have you been running?” there was a slightly incredulous tone in her voice.  Anthea’s eyes took in his full appearance: he wasn’t just flustered, no – it was more than that - he was furious but most of all he was embarrassed; his trousers were creased and wrinkled, hairs from several breeds of dog were adhered to both legs - she laughed aloud.

“Don’t you dare!” he ordered rather futilely.  This was one of the times when he found her powers of deduction to be really rather annoying.  “I was attacked in St James’ Park by a pack of dogs!”

“Were you bitten?” 

He shook his head, “I don’t understand it.”

She gave him her best look of sympathy, then asked with a snigger, “Have you been near a bitch in heat?”

“Hardly!” he straightened to his full height, looking down his nose at her.  “I’m not sure I appreciate your tone.”

“I’ll get that tea, sir.”

“Thank you.  Give me twenty minutes, I shall have to change.”  It was not unusual for Mycroft to spend several days and nights at a time in the office, working around the clock without a break, when his Department was running a special intelligence operation, or for him to fly overseas at very short notice, so he kept a number of complete changes of clothing at hand.  He was always the consummate professional, both in action and appearance – the three-piece suit and umbrella had become his trademark.  Any deviation from that image of perfection would be interpreted as a sign of weakness, by friends and foes alike.  It would be as if the very foundations of Britain were crumbling and that was simply unacceptable.

“Just give me a shout when you’re ready.”

“Will do.  Oh, that reminds me, would you please arrange to have my new suit picked up from Kingsman – Savile Row Bespoke Tailors, I’ll need it for Friday’s Royal Command Performance of the Bolshoi Ballet.”

“Of course, sir, _your_ wish is _my_ command, sir.”

“Oh, very droll.”  His lips however gave a tiny involuntary twitch.


	17. Here Comes The Queen

Her Majesty’s Rolls Royce drew to a halt at the red carpet which stretched from the entrance of the theatre to the kerb.  It's arrival was met by thunderous applause and cheers from the large crowd which had gathered to see her, and the rich and famous, arrive for the Royal Command Performance of the Boshoi Ballet.  The well-oiled machine that is Royal Protection Force, moved in to position scanning the crowd for any signs of danger, at their signal the passenger door of the Rolls was opened for the Queen to exit.  A tremendous cheer and barrage of camera flashes greeted her as she stepped down on to the red carpet to be introduced to the Director of the Theatre who took her hand and bowed.  They exchanged a few words, all but drowned out by the deafening noise that enveloped them, before proceeding inside.

As they entered the theatre foyer and the doors closed behind them, the Queen looked around expectanly, her eyes finally alighting on Mycroft.  He stepped forward, bowing to kiss her hand in greeting. “An honour, as always, your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, it is a pleasure to see you.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine, Ma’am.  May I escort you the reception?”

“You may, thank you.”

As they walked, the Queen took Mycroft’s arm.  He glanced at their linked arms, slightly bemused at the public breach of etiquette – it was simply not done for members of the public to touch the royal personage and vice versa, except in greeting.  And, she was a stickler for protocol whenever in the public view.

“Mycroft, please, tell me the latest news on the so called ‘Royal birther conspiracy’ scandal.”

“Well, as you know, Ma’am, the Head of MI6 has confirmed the origin of the stories – the so-called ‘Fake News’.”

“Yes.”  She laughed quietly, “As I recall ‘Fake’ is a word the President claims to have invented, along with phrase ‘prime the pump’.  One need not look very far to find the biggest purveyor of ‘Fake News’.”

“The latest tweets emanating from his twitter account have stated variously, that he ‘didn’t start the rumour’, that ‘many people, lots of people believe it’, that ‘someone must have told him about it but he can’t remember who’, that ‘it was the Obama administration’, that ‘it was Hillary Clinton’, and that he ‘didn’t say he believed it – just that it might be true’.  In other words, the same old refrain.”

“We expected nothing more.  He must, however, surely be aware by now that neither the fact that there is uncertainty regarding the exact location of my Mother’s place of birth, nor that I was not born in Buckingham Palace, have any bearing on my right of succession to the throne?  So, not so much ‘Fake News’, as it is ‘No News’.”

“One would think so, Ma’am.  However, we are speaking of someone who has a rather limited knowledge and understanding of the American constitution – so, it should come of no surprise that he knows nothing of ours.”

The Queen nodded her head in agreement, “Quite.”

“I shall be speaking with the Prime Minister on the subject, Ma'am – is there anything you would wish me to convey?”

“Only this, you may inform the Prime Minister that if _he_ is invited to visit this country on a State visit, or indeed an official visit of any description, neither the Head of State nor any of Her deputies shall be available to attend at any time in the foreseeable future.  In short, The Firm will down tools and go on strike!”

“Very good, Ma’am,” Mycroft’s admiration at her stance was reflected in his voice.  “I concur.  To not be invited on either should bruise his ego far more than any other action which the Government could possibly conceive.”

“Well, I certainly hope so." 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Oh, and do also please advise the Prime Minister, not to even think about him attending Harry and Meghan’s wedding.”  She patted his arm, "Your invitation is already in the post, as is Anthea's."

 


	18. A Right Royal Performance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I can't write 'accents', so you'll have to do your own Russian accents.
> 
> If you don't know who 'Aleksandr Orlov' is, you can check him out on youtube - search for 'aleksandr orlov meerkat'.
> 
> Information re 'Bartitsu' courtesy of Google.

After the formal introductions were made at the reception, the Queen spent several minutes engaging in the usual ritualistic small-talk with the Russian Ambassador, _Aleksandr Orlov_ , and then with senior members of Bolshoi Ballet.  Orlov was a flamboyant character and renowned raconteur who, in Mycroft’s opinion, bore an uncanny resemblance to a meerkat - less discerning observers simply referred to him as ‘ferret features’.  Born in Africa, of aristocratic stock who had fled the Russian revolution, Aleksandr and his family had in the years since the collapse of communism returned to Russia, and the village of Meerkovo, to reclaim their family dacha and estate.  Despite his aristocratic roots, Aleksandr had overcome all obstacles and old class prejudices to hold one of the most desirable posts open to Russian diplomatic staff.  Whenever asked how he had managed to achieve all this.  He never failed to give the same, one-word reply, “Simples.”

Mycroft stepped back from the conversation when he heard the Queen ask the Ambassador whether he had recently completed any paintings – she knew that this was one of the Ambassador’s favourite subjects.  “Thank you for asking, Your Majesty, I am actually working on portrait of our glorious President, Vladimir Putin.  I am portraying him at his most heroic, and to salute your English history, as St George battling the dragon!  Yes, but, to make him even more heroic, instead of a horse, he will be astride a ferocious lion or perhaps the British bulldog wearing loincloth and carrying only very large sword.  It is magnificent!”  He then added, conspiratorially, in a hushed tone, “But it is _not_ art.  Of course, to be shown as action-man beating chest in this way is not dignified but he likes it, and one is wise to pander to his ego.”

On hearing Orlov's comment, Mycroft tuned out of the conversation, he had heard the Ambassador’s tales one too many times to retain any degree of interest – fortunately Her Majesty was a very patient listener.  To his surprise he felt someone firmly catch hold of his arm and steer him away from the group, he was even more surprised to find it was Madame Petrova, star of the Bollshoi Ballet.  Mycroft stopped after five or six steps, “Is there something I can do for you, Madame?”

Petrova placed her free hand flat against Mycroft’s chest, “It is I who wishes to do something for you, Mister Mycroft Holmes.  But please do not be so formal, you may call me ‘ _lyubov moya_ ’.”

Russian was but one of several languages in which Mycroft was fluent, ‘ _lyubov moya’_ , he knew translated as ‘my love’.  “I am afraid not.  Now, if you will excuse me, Madame, I am required elsewhere.”  Petrova held on tightly despite his polite attempts to escape her clutches.

When the Queen noticed that Madame Petrova had broken away from the group and was engaging in a one-to-one conversation with Mycroft, she quickly finished what she was saying and made a beeline for the pair, her eyes narrowing as she saw that Petrova was hanging on to Mycroft’s left arm.

“Ah, Mr Holmes, there you are.  I have been looking for you, there is an urgent matter we must discuss.”  She smiled coldly at Petrova.  “Do excuse us, this is a matter of State.”  Petrova glared at the Queen but, reluctantly, released Mycroft’s arm.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”  He breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be rescued.

“Think nothing of it, Mycroft.”  She reached out and ran her fingers up his sleeve, “New suit?  Kingsman?”

His relief was short lived, what the hell was going on?  “Er … Yes, Ma’am, you are very observant.”

She moved her hand to the middle of his back, “Yes, I am.  I observe that it fits you very well … very well indeed.”

Suddenly Petrova was back, once again tightly hanging on to his left arm.  She addressed the Queen, “He is mine, you will please go now.”

Mycroft blushed and swallowed nervously sipping his champagne, he searched around the room for Anthea.  He managed to catch her eye just as one of the pair, he couldn’t be sure which, pinched his backside causing him to gasp in surprise and choke on his champagne.  He stared at Anthea silently screaming for help, but Anthea instead of coming to his rescue responded by raising her glass in his direction and giving him a wink.  Oh, she would pay for this!

“I am afraid Mr Holmes is already spoken for!” although said quietly, her Majesty’s voice had a hard, dangerous, edge to it.  She was definitely not amused at Petrova’s rude dismissal of her, and her brazen attempt to steal Mycroft away.

“Who speaks for him?  You?”

“Me!”

“You are an old woman.  You cannot please him.  He is young and virile like me.  He is a genius, I am beautiful, together we will make beautiful intelligent babies.  Many babies!”

“He wouldn’t touch you with the proverbial barge pole.”

Petrova laughed and moved even closer to Mycroft, moulding herself to his body.  Mycroft was becoming increasingly annoyed but it would be unseemly to be anything other than a gentleman in front of Her Majesty.  He tried gently prising her off his arm.

“Get away from him, you bitch!”  The Queen growled threateningly.

“No, you cannot make me!”  Petrova drew herself up to her full height and puffed out her chest, “I am the great Petrova, the most celebrated  _ballet dancer_ in all of the world and heroine of the Russian people!”

As their voices began to rise in volume, heads began turning toward them.

“And I am Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.”  She stepped forward until she was nose to nose with Petrova, “Mycroft Holmes is a British subject which means he’s mine, get over it!”

“No, No!  It’s me he wants!”  Enraged beyond reason, Petrova raised her right hand to strike the Queen.  In an instant, before anyone else could intervene, Her Majesty grabbed Petrova’s arm as she brought it down, with both her hands, simultaneously turning and driving her hip back into Petrova’s abdomen knocking the wind out of her, then dropped to the ground pulling the off-balance Petrova over her shoulder.  Petrova landed flat on her back with a thud and lay there, stunned.  Both sets of security personnel sprang into action with guns drawn: the Royal Protection Squad surrounded Her Majesty, the Russian Cultural Attaches (otherwise known to Western Intelligence as the SVR RF, shorthand for Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation) surrounded Ambassador Orlov.  There was a tense standoff. 

Mycroft stood alone in the eye of the threatening storm, he waved Anthea and his own security detail off, then took a deep breath and bellowed at top of his voice, “STOP!  Стоп!”  The room froze.  “I suggest that everyone put their guns away before someone is injured!”  Both sides eyed the other suspiciously.   “Now! сейчас же!” 

Suddenly the door flew open and the Theatre Director fell in through it.  “HELP!”, he shouted as he slammed the door shut behind, locked it and stood with his back against it.  “Help, there a riot in the stalls!!”

“What?”

“There’s riot in the stalls!  They’re going crazy!!  All of them!!!  They’re fighting and trying to get back here.”

Mycroft turned to the head of the Royal Protection Squad, “Get Her Majesty out of here immediately!  Let me know when she’s safe.”

The Queen did not want to leave Mycroft behind and grabbed his arm, “But, Mycroft I want to stay with you.”  She held on to him like a limpet, refusing to let go, “My apologies, Ma’am, but you need to leave now.  If you do not, I will order them to carry you!”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

“Very well, I will go,” she said through pouted lips, “but you must come and see me later.”

Mycroft turned to the Russian Ambassador, “Aleksandr, I suggest you get your people out of here too, and take ... that woman ...” he nodded toward Petrova who still lay where she had fallen, “with you.  I will speak with you later.  We must at all costs avoid a diplomatic incident!”

The Ambassador who was only too grateful to be able to escape the scene with as little fuss as possible, complied immediately, “Of course.”  He exchanged a few words with the Head Cultural Attaché, who with a snap of his fingers had Petrova gathered up and ushered out the back door.

“Sir,” Anthea called to Mycroft, he turned to see her standing with his security team.  “We must get you away from here too.”  He nodded and followed her toward the back exit, she stopped and turned to the her deputy, “Assign two people to stay and keep us covered until we get the boss into his car.  Look, over there," she pointed to a fire alarm, "break the glass - it'll help cover our exit."

"Yes, ma'am."

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As the limo turned out of the car park, Mycroft wasted no time in venting his annoyance over the evening's happenings at Anthea.  “There was no need for this to happen.  I will NEVER forgive you for not rendering aid in my hour of need, Anthea.  Mark my words!”

“Oh, that was a request for aid, was it?  Sorry, you were all getting on so well, I thought you were trying to let me know you had scored and hooked up with HM for the night!”

Mycroft was scandalised beyond belief, “Anthea, the woman is ninety-one years old!”

“Oh, don’t be a prude.  Sex isn’t the exclusive preserve of the young – as you should know.”

“For heaven’s sake, I AM ONLY FIFTY,” he replied indignantly.

“Fifty-one, actually.”

“Fifty or fifty-one, what difference does that make?”

“It means you are one year closer to receiving your pension!” she laughed as Mycroft tutted and rolled his eyes in annoyance.  “And, how old is Madame Petrova?”

“Officially, she is thirty-eight,” he replied.

“I must say she doesn’t look thirty-eight.”

“That is because she is forty-nine!”

“Really?  I’ve never thought of you as anyone’s toy boy or sugar daddy!  But now I do think of it, I’m seeing you in an entirely different light …”  Anthea slid across the seat until she was leaning against him, her hand toying suggestively with his tie.  It was rare indeed for Mycroft Holmes to find himself lost for words but he was; he spluttered, his face and neck turned scarlet.  Anthea finally decided that she’s had enough fun at his expense for one night and slid back to her own seat – pushing down the odd reluctance she felt in doing so.  She changed the subject, “Any way did you see HM perform that shoulder throw?”

Mycroft slid a finger under his shirt collar and took a deep breath, “Yes, magnificent, wasn’t she?  You know if she was one of today’s young Royals she would be in the running for an Olympic medal in any of the martial arts; she is particularly skilled in Bartitsu.”  His face and neck were slowly returning to their natural colouring.

“I thought it’s called Baritsu?”

“No, the proper name is Bartitsu, only Sherlock calls it Baritsu – he does so in protest at being completely unable to master even the basics.  Nor is it as the name may suggest, a Japanese art but an eclectic martial art and self-defence method originally developed in England _at Barton-Wright’s school_ during the years 1898–1902.  I myself am a proponent of the art and have sparred with Her Majesty many times down the years.”

“Do you let her win?”

“No, quite the contrary, she is gracious enough to let me win the occasional bout.”


	19. A Matter of Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not familiar with the name 'Billy Elliot' - google 'Billy Elliot the Musical'.

Mycroft straightened the door knocker before entering 221B, not because he was OCD - it really didn’t bother him in the slightest that it was askew, but because he knew it irritated Sherlock who saw it as yet another sign that Big Brother was trying to control his life.  He made his way up to the flat to find the pair in the living room occupying their usual seats.  As soon as he stepped through the door, Sherlock snapped, “Chair!”

Mycroft blinked, “Sorry?”

“It’s the rule.  Mrs Hudson explained it to you before,” said John.  “You need to sit in _the_ chair If you want to consult the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Mycroft sat on the sofa and stretched his long legs out in front of him.  “I am not here to consult.”

Sherlock snorted.  “The answer is, no, whatever it is!”

“Whatever it is?  That’s a rather all-encompassing statement!”

“Yes, whatever it is!”

“Well, what it is, is that I have two tickets for next Friday’s performance of the Bolshoi.  I thought you might like to …”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” snapped Sherlock.

“I am not asking that you accompany me, brother mine, I am offering you the pair of tickets.  By the time they arrived, I had already made arrangements for that particular evening.  In any case, I was already scheduled to attend the Royal Command Performance and had no wish to see the Bolshoi twice – I would rather the tickets do not go to waste.”

Sherlock eyed Mycroft suspiciously.  “Don’t you have any friends to offer them to?”

“Of course, I do!  I simply thought that you might like to go.  You did after all aspire to join the Bolshoi when ...”

Sherlock interrupted him, “I was ten years old at the time!”

“Hold on, you were a ballet dancer?”  John was incredulous, he knew Sherlock could dance, but ballet?

“No, my mother was determined that one of us should take up ballet, and he was such a clumsy clod that she pushed me into it.”

“So, you wore tights and those shoes?”  Sherlock ignored him.

“Far from being a ‘clumsy clod’, Sherlock, I deliberately set out to fail,” Mycroft smirked, “I am after all the smart one.”

“Okay, what about a tutu?”

“No!”

“Ballet?”  John marvelled at this latest revelation from the Holmes’ boys.  Sherlock glared at him.  John stood, “I was making tea.  Mycroft?” he asked over his shoulder as he went through to the kitchen

“Yes, please, John.  Thank you.”  He turned his attention back to his brother, “So, Sherlock, do you want the tickets?”

“No, thank you, Mycroft.  I have no interest in seeing the Bolshoi perform.”

“Yes, I can tell your taste runs more to Billy Elliot these days.”  Mycroft glanced in the direction of the kitchen where John was pouring boiling water into three mugs, then back to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eye twitched but before he could reply, John returned, so he resorted instead to staring silently at Mycroft who returned the stare in equal measure, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.  John glanced from one to the other and back, ah – the battle of the Holmes’ stares, he handed Mycroft a mug of tea.  “Mycroft, did I hear you say you have tickets for Billy Elliot?”

Simultaneously the brothers responded, “No!”, Sherlock’s voice drowning out Mycroft.

“Alas, no, John, but I am sure I could obtain them if you wish?” 

John handed a mug to Sherlock before resuming his seat, “Actually, that would be great – a pair, please, if you can manage it.”

“Consider it done.”  Mycroft eyed the mug in distaste: good tea should never be served in a mug, then this was guaranteed to be anything but good tea.  He took a tentative sip, it wasn’t actually that bad for Tesco Everyday Value Teabags, he supposed, although it may take his taste buds several hours to recover – John must be economising again.  “How’s the ‘Consulting Detective’ business these days?”

“As if you didn’t know!”  Sherlock grimaced as he sipped his tea and looked over to John who shrugged unapologetically in response.  He returned his attention to Mycroft, “And, if that is intended to be an opening for you to ask me to investigate last night’s debacle at the Bolshoi, forget it.”

“I intended no such thing.  But if you are in need of gainful employment, I can …”

“No!”

“It’s been all over the news all day about the ballet.  Do they know what caused the riot?” asked John, finally managing to get a word in.

Mycroft shook his head and sipped his tea, hoping that the fresh assault on his taste buds would mask any sign that he knew more than he was letting on, “To describe it as a riot is somewhat of an exaggeration, but no.  The Police and Army have carried out an extensive search of the premises, and HAZMAT teams have been testing the air, water, alcohol etc for anomalies but no contamination has been found.  It seems to have been nothing more than a false alarm which led to mass hysteria.  Fortunately, apart from some minor bumps and grazes, no one was injured.”

John nodded in agreement, “Yes, it could have been very nasty.”  He sipped his tea and tried to change the subject, “So did you go somewhere nice for the Bank Holiday, Mycroft?  You look like you got a bit too much sun.”

Mycroft unconsciously reached for his head, “Yes.  Being fair skinned can be a disadvantage.”

“You ought to get some aloe vera on that – stop the skin peeling.”

“I ready have but thank you for the advice.”


	20. Sugar Daddy

“Number 10 has been on the phone - **again** , sir.” Anthea emphasised the ‘again’.  “You have been summoned!  The PM wants to see you at 10:00 am.”

“Did they send an agenda?”

“Yes, sir, there is but one item on it.  Brexit.”

Mycroft sighed, “Other attendees?”

“The Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Exiting the European Union - a snappy job title if ever there was.”

“Just stick with the short title - ‘Brexit Secretary’, please? 

“As you wish.  In any case, both will be present, along with their senior staff.”

“Boris?”

“No, sir, probably too busy cleaning up the latest mess he’s created at the Foreign Office.”

“Well, at least it’s not the full Brexit cabinet – for that I give thanks.  Trying to move things along with them is like swimming in treacle.  The whole thing’s a complete and utter bloody shambles!  What a way to start the day!”

“Yes, it is, sir, but do at least _try_ to have fun – and remember ‘That which does not kill us, makes us stronger’.”

He glared at Anthea, a dangerous glint in his eyes, and she braced herself for whatever was coming next.  “Anthea,” he said quietly, “you know the old saying ‘misery loves company’?  Well it’s true.”  He smiled and added smugly, “You’re coming with me.”

“Oh, right, sir … I’m behind you all the way, sir!”

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It was more than four hours before the pair emerged from Number 10, blinking into the sunlight and breathing in fresh air again.  “My brain hurts!” groaned Anthea as she donned her dark glasses.  “Four hours of non-stop arguments and absolutely no progress whatsoever!  What a total waste of time!”

Mycroft empathised solemnly, “I feel your pain.”  Then, as though a switch had been flicked, his face immediately brightened, “Hey-ho, never mind, cheer up, soon be dead.  Lunch?”

“And a drink?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes, I think we deserve that.  So, where would you like to go - any preference?”

“Well, certainly not that place where the ex-public school types go dressed up as naughty schoolboys for their school dinners – what’s it called…?”

‘Damn!’ she must have seen that invite lying on his desk.  “The Priory School,” he supplied, adding when he saw her look of disdain, “What?!  It’s all good, clean, innocent fun!” 

“If you say so,” she shook her head showing her true opinion.  “What about the Mazarin Stone?  It has a good menu selection.”

“Then, the Mazarin Stone it shall be.”

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Forty minutes later they were tucking into their starters.

“Did you notice that the PM seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to you today, more than is usual?” asked Anthea.

“How so?”

“Well. I don’t think she took her eyes off you once, and she didn’t snap when you corrected or disagreed with her stance regarding the Brexit divorce settlement.”

“True.”  Mycroft nodded, “You, however, seem to be the centre of attraction here.”

“Actually, no – it’s you they’re looking at.”

“Me?”  Mycroft was suddenly self-conscious, he raised a hand to his head and smoothed his hair into place, “Is my hair?  Is there something on my face?”

“No, sir, I would have said.”

“Then why would anyone be looking at me?” he quickly glanced around.  People were indeed watching.  “It’s clearly you they are looking at – they’re probably wondering why you’re here with someone like me.”

“It’s not me, it’s you.”  She picked up her handbag.  “I need to visit the ladies, just observe the reaction when I leave.”  As Anthea rose from her seat, Mycroft scanned the other diners who stared back at him.  She was right, it was _him_!  He fought down the instinct to abandon Anthea and bolt for the exit.  Embarrassed, he stared at his plate wishing that she would hurry back, so they could leave together.  Suddenly, a number of waiting staff were at the table, fussing over him.  His efforts to politely get rid of them seemed instead to merely encourage their attentions.  He heaved a huge sigh of relief when Anthea finally reappeared.

“Your car is here, sir,” she said, having anticipated his request. 

“Oh, thank god … I mean, thank you.”

“I’ll see to the bill, sir, if you want to go ahead.”  Mycroft scurried toward the exit.

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Having made his escape in the car Mycroft slumped back in his seat, taking deep breaths, trying relax.  “Why were they all staring at me?  What’s going on?”  He looked to Anthea hoping that she might have the answer, but if she did she was keeping it to herself.

Anthea undid her top button, “It’s very warm in here, don’t you think?”  Her fingers moved down to the next button.

Mycroft watched transfixed, “Yes, it is very warm.”  He turned his head to stare out of the window on his side of the car, thankful that the screen between the driver and passenger seats was raised, a wave of panic washed over him.  He tried to calm himself, perhaps he was just misinterpreting the signals?  Yes, that must be it, he re-assured himself, after all, there had never been the slightest hint of anything … anything between them … she knew that he … and he knew that she … so why?  Was she just kidding with him, again?

Suddenly Anthea had released her seatbelt and was leaning against him, she nibbled his ear, “Aww, don’t be shy, Sugar Daddy.”

Mycroft froze, Anthea was obviously in the thrall of some external influence and not in full control of her actions - he knew he had to put a stop to this before things went any further.  He weighed up the options – he could eject her from the car but that would be ungentlemanly, he could get out of the car, or … he turned to her, smiled and leaned in toward her, their lips now only millimetres apart.   He raised his hand and caressed her neck, whispering “Anthea”.  She closed her eyes in anticipation, a second later they shot open again when she felt a slight sting as his ring pressed into her neck injecting her with an extremely fast-acting sedative, “My apologies, dear.”

Anthea immeiately slumped forward against him.  He held her gently for a second or maybe just a little longer, then carefully pushed her back into her seat and clicked her seatbelt into position.  He activated the intercom, “James, there’s been a slight change in plans.  Please drop me at the office, then take Anthea home.  She will sleep for about 4 hours.  Stay with her until she awakes or her partner returns home – if the latter, tell Melissa that she, umm, overindulged a little at lunchtime.  Otherwise tell Anthea, I’ll see her tomorrow as per usual.”

If James had any questions he sensibly kept them to himself, in any case, he had after all been Mycroft’s personal chauffeur for long enough that little surprised him anymore.  He responded immediately, “Yes, sir.”


	21. The Morning After

The following morning, Mycroft was not quite sure what to expect when his car arrived at the usual time to pick him up, but he mentally battened down the hatches, preparing for the worst, as he slid into his seat.  He stole a quick glance at Anthea - she had not reacted to his presence at all.  Was she deliberately ignoring him?  He looked at her more closely, she was wearing dark glasses and sat slightly slumped in her seat – no, she was not ignoring him, she was asleep! 

He smiled at her in amusement, before saying loudly, “Good morning!”.  Anthea gave a start and sat bolt upright, looking around in obvious confusion.  “How are you feeling?” he asked sympathetically, and more quietly.

“Terrible!  I have a massive hangover.”  She removed the dark glasses and massaged her forehead, “And I’m more than just a little confused.”

“You do look a little green around the gills - you’re not going to be sick, are you?”  She shook her head, wincing in pain at the movement.  “Do you recall much of yesterday afternoon?”

“Only bits and pieces.  Melissa said James took me home, and he told her that I had ‘overindulged’ at lunch?  I don’t understand it, that’s so unprofessional - I never do that!”  She picked her bag up and rummaged around in it before finally producing a bottle of water and a packet of paracetamol, she fumbled with the cap of the bottle, “I have a terrible taste in my mouth, it’s almost like … like ... I’ve been slipped a mickey.”  Her eyes locked on his and she glared at him accusingly, “You drugged me!”

“Yes, my dear, but …”

“You better have a bloody good reason, Mycroft Holmes!!”  She gave up trying to open the bottle and rubbed her forehead again, “Damn!”

Taking pity on her, Mycroft wordlessly reached across and took the bottle from her.  He twisted the cap off and waited until she had taken two of the paracetamol from the packet, then held the bottle back out to her, “Here.”  She angrily snatched it from his hand.  “Do you think we can get a discount for a bulk order of those things?” he asked as she swallowed the capsules, trying his best to lighten the mood and diffuse the threatening conflict.

“Don’t try your charm on me – it won’t work!”

“It really was for your own good - honestly.  Would you like a mint?”

She took the proffered mint, “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you!  We need to have a serious discussion, sir.  I think the office is probably the safest place.”

The remainder of the journey to the office was completed in total silence, Anthea had retreated behind her dark glasses again, leaving Mycroft worrying about what she had in store for him … was she going to request a transfer or even worse resign?  When he said he couldn't manage without her, he meant it.


	22. Confession Time

On their arrival at the office, Mycroft busied himself with making tea for himself and a large black coffee for Anthea.  “Please, come through.”

She followed him into his office and over to the sofa where she sat down.  He quietly set her tea down on the coffee table in front of her, then took the armchair opposite in order to maintain some distance between them, he leaned back and closed his eyes.  Anthea was still inwardly fuming at him but recognised, from her years of working with him, the external signs of his inner mental turbulence, and waited patiently for him organise his thoughts.  A moment later he opened his eyes but avoided looking directly at her.

Without any preamble, she demanded, “Tell me what you’ve done.” 

“Why do you believe that I have done anything?”

“Are we really going to do this?” she sighed.  “Very well, the dogs in the park, HM and Madame Petrova, the PM, the restaurant, and before all that, the eBay auction and the mysterious parcel – and now, yesterday.  Yes, it’s all coming back to me!  I may not have the Holmes’ power of deduction but even I can see a pattern here – and you are at the centre of all of these occurrences, the spider at the centre of the web.”  Mycroft’s head dropped, his chin resting on his chest, but he remained silent.  She tried again, “Mycroft, do you trust me?”

His head shot up and he looked directly into her eyes for the first time since their arrival back in the office, and without hesitation replied “Implicitly.”

“You know whatever you say will remain between us.”  He nodded. “Then please let me help.”

“It’s all so embarrassing,” he covered his face with his hands, he blushed at the memory. “I’ve been such a fool!”

“What, even more than the time you, along with two of your colleagues, were arrested for soliciting in Soho?”

If possible, Mycroft’s blush got even redder.  “That was just a stupid mistake.  We were on our way to a Rocky Horror themed Halloween party and had a drink, or two, before setting out.  Some louts started heckling us, calling us names, so we decided to call them out.  It got a bit out of hand … then the police turned up and arrested us all for breach of the peace.  The louts who started it accused us of trying to pick them up in order to try to justify their attack on us!”

“And then the three of you gave the police false names and addresses – I believe your ‘business’ name is Gloria Scott?”

“It was the first thing that popped into my head.  I couldn’t give my real name.”

“Lucky for you any checks on your fingerprints are routed automatically back to this office.”

“Yes, and you came to my rescue.”

“And what a sight you were to behold - black basque, curly wig, pearl necklace, rubber gloves, black fishnets, terrible make-up, and standing six foot nine tall in your eight inch stilettoes.  I don’t know how you managed to walk in them sober, never mind drunk!  I think I still have the photo somewhere.”

Mycroft groaned and hung his head.

“And then there was the time you and the same two friends went skinny-dipping at Brighton, again after a drink or two, and they made off with all your clothes.  Luckily for you it was mid-summer and the sun was setting – so, no sunburn in sensitive places, and not very cold either.  I had to rescue you from the police on that occasion as well.”  She watched as he squirmed uncomfortably, “And, that’s how you earned the nickname ‘Ginger-Nuts’ not, as others seem to believe, because of your love of gingernut biscuits!”

“Stop, please don’t, I am humiliated enough.”

“All I am saying is that no-one is perfect, Mycroft, not even you!  I bet, when each of those two events occurred, you thought it was the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to you.  Right?  And yet, you survived.” Anthea leaned across and nudged his cup toward him, “Here, drink up and tell me all about it.”

He sipped his tea, quietly mulling things over before finally making up his mind, she was right he decided.  “Well, I started losing my hair when I was in my twenties, it was quite distressing but, at the time, just something I had to accept … I guess I learned to live with it.  However, circumstances changed fairly recently and since then I’ve become, well, obsessed with finding a treatment.”  Anthea nodded in encouragement. “Oh, I’ve spent a fortune trying all sorts of weird and fanciful treatments but nothing has worked!  I even considered a hair transplant – but you know what Sherlock is like, he would make my life unbearable.  I was in total despair.”  He took another sip from his cup.  “But a few months ago, I happened to chance upon a research paper which mentioned an experimental procedure for the treatment of organ transplant rejection.  I began thinking about how this could be adapted to treat hair loss ….” he paused and shook his head.  “I know, I know, it sounds pathetic - and it is - but I had to try something!”

“Hence the eBay purchase … but why the Hoff’s hair of all things?”

“Well, you said it yourself – he had good hair, thick, natural colour at his age.  Exactly what I need.  My own hair’s obviously no good!  His follicles were used to grow new follicles in the laboratory using Simpson’s recent scientific breakthroughs in DNA replication and immunology – the new follicles could be safely injected into my scalp with no fear of them being rejected by my auto-immune system.”

“And the mysterious package?”

Mycroft got up, crossed to his security cabinet and returned with the Helmet.  Anthea’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of it.  “It’s only part of the treatment,” he explained.  “There is a course of treatment which includes special shampoos and oils for massaging into the scalp as well.  The Helmet is a prototype … which is why it looks rather strange, the design will no doubt be refined for marketing to the public.”  He turned the Helmet over and pointed to the inside, “You see that green gel?  It holds thousands of tiny needles containing hair follicles in a serum which are automatically injected into the scalp.  The DNA of the follicles has been treated in such a way as to eliminate transplant rejection.”

“Has it worked?”

“No,” he shook his head miserably, “There’s no sign of any new hair growth.”

“What does LISA mean?”

“What?”

“LISA – it’s written on the sides of the Helmet,” Anthea pointed, “what does it mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s not mentioned in the instructions – probably an acronym.”

Anthea shook her head and winced, “But why would you do this to yourself?  Mycroft – you don’t need ‘good hair’ to look sexy!  Do you want to know what sexy looks like?”   He nodded.  She reached into her handbag, pulled something out, and handed it to him.  He looked at it and was surprised to find that she had given him a small mirror.  “Go on, look at it.”  He did as she instructed, then looked to her questioningly.  She nodded, “That is sexy.  Mycroft Holmes, you are a sexy man.”

He shook his head in denial and laid the mirror face down on the table, “If that’s what you see, you should've gone to Specsavers!  Look at me – I’m going bald, I’ve got a big nose, I’m fat …”

She interrupted him, “Being sexy is not about any of those things!  It’s not just about having good hair, perfect facial symmetry or being a size 00!  It’s about personality, confidence, bearing, courage, intelligence, sense of humour – a combination of all these traits, and more.  You have all of these in abundance!  You’re a clever man, so why is it you can’t see that?”

When Mycroft continued to shake his head in denial, Anthea realised she had to go for the kill.

“Tell me, Mycroft, what sort of man is Detective Inspector Lestrade?”  Mycroft froze like a rabbit caught in headlights.  “Yes, I noticed how you’ve been avoiding him since this all began – how could I not?  And, as I now recall, this latest chain of events began shortly after he announced that his divorce was finalised.”

A small wistful smile fleeted across his lips, “He’s … he’s everything …”

“Was that when you found out he was bi?”

“No, that was some time ago.  I had always suspected it, but then I was with him at a meeting when he bumped in to an old ‘acquaintance’ from his University days, who let something slip.  However, I could never, would never, contemplate a relationship while he remained married.”  He shook his head, “And now?  I thought there might be a chance but who am I kidding?  He’s free but he wouldn’t …”

“Right.  Let me ask you this, do you think he is the type of man who is superficial and shallow enough to be attracted by good looks alone?  Is that really the type of man you want in your life? How long do you think that kind of relationship would last?”  At last she had his complete attention.

“No!  Gregory is kind, considerate, generous, intelligent, funny …,” his voice trailed off.  “But he is also very good looking.  He could have anyone he wants.”  He looked down at his hands unable to meet Anthea’s eyes.  “Why would he want me?”

“For heaven’s sake, you don’t know that he wouldn’t.   You do both him and yourself a great disservice.”  She reached out and took his hand.  “Mycroft look at me.  Give him a chance … Give yourself a chance.  You deserve it!”

“What if he doesn’t share my … feelings?”  He could hardly believe that a sentence containing those two words, ‘my’ and ‘feelings’, had issued forth from his lips.  Wasn’t he the one who had taught Sherlock that ‘caring is not an advantage’, and yet here he was admitting, not only to himself but to another living, breathing human, that he had … feelings … for Gregory Lestrade.  He felt shaken to his very core, he would never be the same man again.

“There’s no guarantee he will, but if you don’t try you will never know - and that, I do guarantee, you will always regret.” 

They sat in silence for several minutes as Mycroft contemplated Anthea’s advice.  Did he have the courage to act?  Either way he could lose everything: if he did not tell Gregory how he felt he could lose him, if he did tell him he could lose him.  Anthea was right, it would be worse not to try.  His thoughts were interrupted as Anthea spoke again. 

“What I don’t understand is how this ‘treatment’ appears to have caused so much collateral damage … look at everything that has happened to you and those around you since you started this.  It just doesn’t add up.  I mean, okay, the Hoff was sexy but not so sexy that a few hair follicles would have this effect on people!”

“You know, I’ve been so distracted that I didn’t think of that but you’re absolutely right.  Something else is at work here.”  He put down his cup and saucer and stood, straightening his waistcoat.  “Anthea, bring me the head of Homer Jay Simpson!”

“It will take longer than usual, sir, he’s currently in Rome.”

“ASAP, please.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“And, Anthea … I do, most humbly apologise for the impact that my stupidity has had on you, and for drugging you.  It was inexcusable.”

“You are forgiven – this time.  I hate to think what I might have done if you hadn’t stopped me, although drugging me was a step too far!”

Mycroft laughed, “My dear, even if I wasn’t gay, I can assure you that nothing of that nature would have happened.  I am a perfect gentleman and would never take advantage of anyone in such a situation.”

“Yes, but I do not claim to be a perfect lady!”


	23. Experimental Error

Aside from some muffled sounds, Homer had been very quiet during the car journey from Heathrow - due to Anthea’s executive decision to bind and gag him, and throw him in the boot.  On arrival at the now customary rendezvous location, he was hauled from the car and deposited in the chair in front of Mycroft.

“Mission accomplished, sir.”

“Good job, my dear,” Mycroft smirked at the sight.  “I think we can lose the gag – untie him.”

Anthea nodded to the driver who untied Homer and removed the gag.

“Professor Simpson, you will recall that at our last meeting I advised you not to disappointment me.”  He leaned in towards Homer’s face, and said very quietly.  “Well, Homer, you have disappointed me!  And that was a rather foolish thing to do.”  Homer swallowed nervously.  “Would you care to explain yourself?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean that the prototype device you created has singularly failed to achieve a positive result.”  He raised the tip of his umbrella to eye level and studied it intently.  “And, there have been side-effects, serious side effects!  People have suffered.  Considerable collateral damage, in fact.”

“Collateral damage?” whispered Homer, desperately trying to understand what was going on.  “Isn’t that what happens when the military accidently blow people up?  Someone was killed?”

“Not in this instance, but no thanks to you.  The point is that the prototype failed!”

“Well. That’s not my fault.”  Homer was getting angry, “You said there’d be no comeback and you accepted the risks!”

“Not when it comes to your sheer stupidity!” Mycroft was not accustomed to raising his voice, as most people were instinctively aware enough to recognise that his quiet, calm demeanour was a facade behind which something altogether different lurked.  Homer was not most people.

“Well, failing isn’t always a bad thing, is it?”

“How do you mean?”  Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose, already weary with the conversation.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset.  Well, okay, so it didn’t work this time, but who’d want pubes growing on their head anyway!  Would you?”

“Pubes?”

“Well, that’s what you sent me – a sample of pubic hair!  Probably got them out of the shower drain or something – eewww, craptacular.”

“What?!  Why didn’t you tell me when you tested the samples?”

“Do-oh!  I DID try but you wouldn’t listen, would you?  No, Mister Smarty-Pants didn’t want to know, did he?!” Homer hmphed dramatically before continuing, “No, you ordered me to go ahead – so I did!”

Anthea unsuccessfully failed to completely supress a laugh.  The glare Mycroft directed at her would have turned milk sour.  He rubbed his forehead, his magnificent brain trying to grapple with the fact that, despite everything going so badly wrong, he had actually had a very lucky escape.

“Anyway, I been working on a Mark II model, and I think I can promise, maybe, that it will be a bit more successful, maybe!  I can send it to you.”

“NO!” the response escaped Mycroft’s lips before he had even thought about the offer.  “No, that will not be required.”

“Why was it called ‘LISA’?” asked Anthea.

“Duh?”, not for the first time, Homer was baffled.

“The acronym ‘LISA’ – what does it stand for?”

“LISA is my daughter’s name,” Homer looked at Anthea as though she was incredibly stupid.  “I used her old skateboarding helmet – saved a couple of bucks.”

And, indeed, Anthea did feel incredibly stupid but managed to retain her composure. “Have you managed to eliminate the side-effects?”

“Side-effects?”

“Yes, the user reported that he was subjected to a great deal of unwanted attention from women – mainly, but also from some men.  They seemed unable to resist his ‘sex-appeal’ and were unable to keep their hands off him.  He was also chased by a pack of dogs which took a liking to him,” she smirked in Mycroft’s direction.

A lightbulb seemed to switch on in Homer’s head.  “Oh, so that’s where it went!  Oh-Oh.”

“’Oh-Oh’, what?  Explain!” snapped Mycroft.

“Well, you see, there is this other experiment I’m working on for an Italian company.  They must have somehow got mixed up.”

“Mixed up?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!  Would you please E-X-P-L-A-I-N?!  You do know what that means, don’t you?” demanded Mycroft.

“No need to talk to me as if I’m stupid!  You’re the one who started this!  You’re the one who sent the pubic hairs …” Homer paused, raising his eyes to peer at the top of Mycroft’s head. “Did you use the treatment?!”

Mycroft cringed, surprised by Homer’s unexpected insight.  “If you do not explain within the next 60 seconds, I will see to it that you are locked up in the deepest, darkest prison I can find, on a very low-calorie diet, and the key thrown away, thereby affording you plenty of time to produce a coherent response!”

“There’s no need to snap!”

“Do not push me.” Mycroft’s voice was icy cold.

“Well, this other experiment I’m working on is intended to create a range of body and facial soaps, shampoos and colognes for men …  you know to make us sexy and irresistible to the ladies?” he chuckled suggestively.

“Go on.”

“Well, when it came time to mix the ingredients for testing … one of them was missing … it must have somehow got mixed in with the massage oils or shampoo … somehow …” his voice petered out.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead, “What was this ingredient?”

“Nothing dangerous – it wouldn’t harm anyone!”

“WHAT?!”

“Just a concentrated blend of human and animal pheromones – mainly male.”

“Mainly male?” asked Anthea.

“Yeah, well even us macho men have a soft, feminine side.  Don’t we?” he winked lecherously at Anthea who grimaced with distaste.

Mycroft felt sick and heard himself ask in a pathetically weak faltering voice, fearing what the answer might be.  “How long before … I mean … will it … wear off?”

“A few days after you … I mean, the user, stops using it.  Meantime, just to be safe, I suppose y … erm, he should try to avoid being with people in enclosed spaces as the pheromones would be more concentrated in that type of environment.  Oh, and keep away from dogs, and other animals – their sense of smell is much more acute than ours, so they would react to a lesser concentration – even outdoors, in fact.”  He smiled, “See - told you it’s not dangerous, so you can quit worrying!”

“How could you have been so stupid?”

“Well, d’oh, it takes one to know one!”

Mycroft flinched, it was true, stupidity did indeed know no bounds – a fact to which he could now attest.

“And, if you’re so smart, Mr Smarty-Pants,” Homer could not help rubbing it in, “why are you doing all this anyways?  Hair’s not so great!  I tried all this stuff too until I realised that all it did was get me into trouble.  And my wife, Marge, says some women find bald men quite virile and she loves me – even more than that green guy with the tentacles!”  He finished in a mocking tone, “Maybe your ‘user’ can learn from that!!” using his pudgy fingers to form air-quotes around the word user.

‘Tentacles?’  Mycroft’s mind boggled at the thought.

“Look, okay, so I messed up but there is actually some good news for you!   So, you won’t grow new hair to replace what you’ve lost, but the treatment has strengthened and re-invigorated the hair follicles you do have, and there should be very little future hair loss.”  He looked hopefully at Mycroft, “That’s good, isn’t it?  Huh?”

“Give the Professor a lift home.  Feel free to gag him!”

As Mycroft turned to leave, Anthea called after him, “Oh, sir, the next time you find something interesting on eBay, remember – _caveat emptor_!  It might save a lot of bother – for everyone.  You know what they say - ‘if something seems too good to be true, it probably is’.”

“Yes, well, thank you, for those pearls of wisdom!”  Mycroft made his way back to his own car, actually, that last bit was good news.  Very good news indeed!  Then old doubts began to ebb and flow … good news, if it was true … if it was true.

 


	24. 221B - Round 2

Mycroft entered the living room of 221B, without knocking, and dropped down on to the sofa like a sack of potatoes, his umbrella resting on the seat cushion next to him.  He stretched his out long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, and rested his head against the back of the sofa with a long sigh.

“Looking a bit worse for wear, brother.”  This was about as close as Sherlock would come to expressing aloud, his concern for Mycroft’s wellbeing.

“It’s been one of those weeks.”

“And yet, you still find time to visit – uninvited, as always,” being concerned did not, however, prevent Sherlock from getting a dig in.   He sat up in his chair as John appeared with two mugs of tea and handed one to him. “Is there a particular reason for gracing us with your presence, Mycroft?”

“Not everything is about you, Sherlock, I’m here to see John.”

“You got the Billy Elliot tickets for me!” anticipated John, clearly very pleased.

“Yes, and for the best seats in the house.  The package also includes free drinks from the bar for you and your companion – both pre-performance and during the interval, followed by dinner at a nearby restaurant.  I suggest you place your bar orders online in advance to save waiting in a very long queue for bar service.”  He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and handed it to John, “I hope the date is suitable.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”  John opened the envelope and examined the tickers, his eyes watered at the price.  “Err … I don’t have enough cash on me right now – I’ll have it for you next time I see you.  Is that OK?”

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively, “Oh, that’s quite all right.  There’s no need, John, they were given to me - gratis.”

“Cheers, Mycroft, I appreciate that - really.  That's excellent!”

Sherlock groaned, “I do hope future visits will be kept to a minimum, brother.  I can’t work with your presence to distract me.”

“Shut up, Sherlock!  You don’t have a case at the moment to be interrupted,” said John as he returned the tickets to the envelope and placed it under the skull on top of the mantelpiece.  “Just ignore him, Mycroft, he’s sulking because I singed his purple shirt when I was ironing earlier this afternoon.  It’s a tiny … and I mean microscopically tiny mark that only he, or you for that matter, would notice.  Of course, if he’s unhappy with the service, he could always do the ironing for a change.”

“I am NOT going to Billy Elliott,” Sherlock snapped petulantly.

“I don’t recall asking you!”

Mycroft smirked at John’s reply, while Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he tried to deduce whether John had invited someone else instead.

“Tea, Mycroft?  It’s the good stuff this time – Tetley’s.”

“Thank you, John, but I really must be going.”  He stood and straightened his suit before gathering up his umbrella.  “No rest for the wicked.”

As Mycroft turned to leave, Sherlock called out, “You would know, Mycroft.  You would know!”

"Do enjoy the show, John - you too brother!"


	25. Finally ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to PURPLEleopardKAT, ImpishDesign, Thewasp, LizbetRx, aperuser2618, bookersun, and the others who've been following this story.
> 
> And, a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to everyone xxxxx

There was a knock on the living room door just as Mycroft reached it, he pulled it open and stood blinking.

“Oh, hi, Mycroft.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“Not leaving, are you?” asked Lestrade.  “Only I’d like a quick word.”

“I … “ Mycroft floundered. The words he had so carefully planned to say disappearing as his courage fled.  He just couldn't say them.  He resigned himself to the inevitable.  “I … I ’m afraid I must, I have an engagement this evening.”  He took a step forward but Lestrade did not move to let him pass.  They stood only inches apart.

Lestrade lowered his voice to a whisper, “Have you been avoiding me?”

“Wh … What?”  Mycroft swallowed nervously.

“Well, I’ve hardly seen you around lately.  I feel that you’ve been deliberately avoiding me for some reason.  Have I done something to offend you?”

“No.  No, I’ve been kept very busy … meetings … and negotiations …”  He retreated back a step into the room as Lestrade stepped forward.  Once inside, Lestrade closed the door and stood with his back against it.

“Only if I have offended you, I wish you’d tell me what I did.”

“I assure you that you have done nothing.  As I said, I’ve have been very busy of late.”

“You are always busy but you have never avoided me before – or at least, as often.  You can’t even look me in the eye.  So, what’s changed?”

“Nothing.  As I have just said repeatedly, I have been very busy – I did request, via Anthea, that you send any papers you wished to discuss for review.”

“I didn’t want to see you to discuss paperwork.  I wanted to see YOU!”

Mycroft felt trapped, he glanced nervously over his shoulder at his brother and John who were showing an interest in the whispered conversation.  “I’m sorry I don’t …” his mouth dried up and his voice petered out.  He closed his eyes wishing that the floor would open up and swallow him.  He was ruining everything!

“Are you all right,” Lestrade placed a hand Mycroft’s arm.

Mycroft flinched and quickly stepped back putting more space between them.

“Mycroft … what the hell?” Lestrade could not hide his exasperation any longer.

“Would you let me pass, please?!”  There was an air of desperation in the request.

“No.”

Mycroft finally looked directly at him, and Lestrade could see a myriad of emotions in his eyes.  “Mycroft, I think I understand what this is about.”

“No, no, you can’t possibly.” Mycroft lowered his eyes again.

“I think I do, and I hope I’m right because I’m going to take a chance and just go for it!” he stopped and drew a deep breath building himself up, afraid of rejection. “Right here goes.  I thought that as my divorce has now been finalised and I’m a free man, so to speak, that we could maybe talk about us – is … is there’s a chance of … You must know that I’ve fancied you, almost since our first meeting?”  He stopped talking and watched Mycroft’s face, hoping for a sign that he was right – there was nothing.   “Mycroft, would you please let me take you out for dinner?”

“Have you been speaking with Anthea?”

“I went to your office and demanded to see you – I refused to leave until I did.  She told me you were here.”

“What else did she tell you, Gregory?  Did you have a good laugh at my expense?”

“What?  No!” Lestrade looked as though he’d been slapped, he shook his head.  “Shame on you, Mycroft Holmes, that you would even think that of Anthea.  No, she just suggested that we, you and I, should talk.  And as for me asking you out to dinner, well I thought that up all on my own.  I do that sometimes you know – think!  I came over here to hoping to catch you because I didn’t want you running away again – boy, you can move fast when you have a mind to.”

“Please don’t mock me. I couldn’t bear that.”

“Mycroft, please believe me, I would never do that to you.  I care too much for you,”

“Care, for me?" Mycroft shook his head dejectedly, "No, you don’t – you can’t.  I know what I am.”

“Mycroft, look at me, please?  Do you really think that I would come here and make an absolute fool of myself in front of that arse,” he nodded in Sherlock’s direction, “if I didn’t care?”

Lestrade reached out a hand but withdrew it when Mycroft flinched again.

“Oh, for god’s sake why don’t you just kiss him and get the hell out of our flat?!” demanded Sherlock.

“Sherlock, they need to sort this out themselves and you’re not helping!”  Sherlock opened his mouth as if to reply, but before he managed to actually say anything, he was shushed by John.

Lestrade smiled, “Actually, that’s wasn’t a bad idea,” and, without any warning, reached out and pulled Mycroft to him by the lapels. “Mycroft Holmes, you are a stupid bugger but I love you!”  He leaned forward and kissed him.  Mycroft closed his eyes but did not respond, his umbrella clattered to the floor.  Lestrade broke the kiss and took a step backward.  “Open your eyes and look at me, Mycroft.  I mean really look at me and do that deduction thing.  Tell me what you see, what am I feeling?”

Mycroft was afraid of what he might see, and hesitated to open his eyes.

“Come on, show me what a genius you are.”

Finally, Mycroft opened his eyes and regarded Lestrade cautiously. “Y … Your respiration …,” his voice faded.  “your respiration has increased, your face is flushed, your pupils dilated, your lips … your lips… are ..”

“Yours …” Lestrade pulled Mycroft toward him and kissed him again.  Mycroft was still hesitant but slowly began to respond.

Neither of them heard the gagging noises Sherlock made as he pretended to be sick. “For god’s sake, Sherlock, grow up!” snapped John.

“He’s the one who’s always said that caring is not an advantage.”

John laughed, “Well, I can’t be absolutely certain …  but it looks like he’s re-evaluating that right now.”

“It’s disgusting all that slobbering over each other!” 

“Well, millions of people are doing it even as we speak.  It’s what makes the world go around.”  He couldn’t resist adding, “Even your parents – your Mummy and father - did it at least three times!”  Sherlock gagged again.  “And, if the way they look at each other is anything to go by, they’re probably doing it right now!”

“Oh my god!  Brain bleach!”  Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and pressed his fingers to his temple, “Delete!  Delete!  Delete!”

John looked across to Mycroft and Greg just as they broke apart, “Look, I’m really happy for the both of you.”  There was no sign that they had heard him, he raised his voice and tried again, “Look, I hate to break this up.  I mean it’s great, really.  But, I am a doctor, and in my expert medical opinion, if you two love birds don’t get out of here right now, I think Sherlock’s brain will implode.”

Greg laughed, “That would be something worth seeing, but I think we have better things to do.”  He picked up the umbrella and held his hand out, offering it to Mycroft.  “May I?”

Mycroft took the offered hand gently in his.  “Dinner?”

“Or … whatever you want …” Lestrade squeezed Mycroft’s hand, and raised it to his lips.

Mycroft blushed, “Well, I don’t feel particularly hungry.”

“Neither do I!”  Lestrade kissed him again.  “My place?  We can ….. talk?”

John threw a cushion at them, “Go!”

John watched as the pair exited, pulling the door closed behind them.  "Well," said John, "I'm glad they finally got their act together!"  He looked over at Sherlock who sat staring into space, and then relaxed back in his seat waiting for him to resurface.  "Who knows, there might yet be hope for us all!" 


End file.
